


A Term of Disparagement

by ConnorRK



Series: Reverse AU [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Android Hank Anderson, Angst, Drowning, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Hallucinations, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Rape, Torture, Whump, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-11 18:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15978452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorRK/pseuds/ConnorRK
Summary: He can do this. Hank is waiting for him. He can take a fucking and suck a dick long enough for his partner to come to his rescue. He’s been stabbed, he’s been shot—he lost his best friend and brother to this job. This is nothing, just another case to work through and solve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is only going to be four chapters and there is minimal comfort, so please be aware. The fic itself is already complete, I'm gonna update Monday, Thursday, and Monday. Written for my discord wife Kai, who's devious mind came up with this plot and then motivated me with some tasty art that she's graciously allowed me to include in the relevant chapter. :Smooches:
> 
> Scenes that contain noncon will have a double dash instead of a single dash at the beginning of the scene, but it's mentioned pretty explicitly in other scenes, which I have not warned for. This first chapter contains no noncon.
> 
> Please enjoy my shameless whump lol
> 
> ETA: This is a reverse au fic, and the second part of a series, but the first part is not necessary to understand this one. First part is just smut and feelings ;)

An explosion of pain jolts him into consciousness, and Connor folds over, choking, trying to wrap his arms around his stomach. Something thin cuts into his wrists, trapping his arms behind him. The back of his head throbs in time with his pulse. It takes him several moments of rapid, blurred blinking, to take in his surroundings.

“Finally with us, pretty boy?” a man with a baseball bat asks. He’s thin and stubbled, late twenties, wearing a Detroit Lions tank top that's seen better days, and a backwards cap. It takes Connor far too long to focus on the man’s face, vision spinning, but when he does the memory comes back slowly.

Dennis Calhoun, involved in a rash of android kidnappings and disappearances that Connor and Hank had finally gotten a lead on. They'd been tailing the man for three days, trying to get something more concrete than their informant’s word.

At the memory of his partner, Connors thoughts finally congeal. Hank. He should be with Hank. It's the last thing Connor remembers—the two of them watching Calhoun enter a small convenience store, and then nothing.

He jerks his arms and finally recognizes the plastic bite of zip ties holding him to the wooden chair. He feels the same around his ankles, one trapped to each chair leg. They've taken his old, worn jacket, and his heart skips a beat, realizing it’s absence. His beanie and shoulder holster are long gone too, leaving him in the garish striped button up he’d thrown on and jeans, the outfit he’d been wearing while they tailed Calhoun around the city.

There are two other men besides Calhoun—the taller one has a shaved head and a snake tattoo winding up his bicep, wearing jeans and a plain black shirt. The other is obviously the youngest, curly blonde hair and wide, interested eyes. A new initiate, if Connor had to guess. Calhoun bounces the baseball bat off his palm, the soft smack the only sound in the small, windowless, concrete room.

“Where is Hank?” Connor asks, and grits his teeth when the man raises the bat and grips the handle with both hands.

The air is knocked out of him, stomach seizing, and he curls in on himself, retching. Nothing comes up. Through the coughing and gagging he tries to remember the last time he ate. He had a protein bar when he went to bed the night before, but there's no way of knowing how long he's been out.

“Nuh-uh, we’re asking the questions here,” Calhoun says, and Connor doesn't flinch as the end of the bat swings around and gently taps his cheek. “Who the fuck squealed on us?”

Connor coughs, choking down the nausea, and asks, “Where’s Hank?” The other two men glance at each other and snigger.

The bat slams into Connor’s stomach again, another explosion of pain that leaves him retching. Something sour climbs up his throat, burning bile, and he clenches his teeth, swallowing it down.

“Who ratted us out,” Calhoun pauses, digging into his own pocket, and pulls out Connor’s wallet. He lets it fall open, studying the ID and swinging the bat in lazy circles. “Detective Connor Anderson?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Connor says raggedly. His stomach hurts with each inhale and exhale, but he’s not getting enough air. He needs to see Hank, needs to know if he was captured, if he got away, if he’s still alive.

His eyes flick around the room, gathering what information he can. When Calhoun turns to glance at the others, Connor notes the gun tucked into the back of his pants. The one with the tattoo is armed as well, a revolver sitting in an actual hip holster, while the youngest appears unarmed. He’s staring at Connor, green eyes almost black in the yellow light.

There's a plastic table set against the far wall with a fast food bag on top, a couple of steel folding chairs, and nothing else. The concrete floor is covered in dirt and dark brown marks that stain the concrete in whorls around a small rusty drain in the center of the room. Dried blood, if Connor had to guess. Hank would be able to tell for sure, with his oral crime lab. The rusty metal door in the corner near the table is closed, but it doesn’t seem to have a lock. At least not from this side.

“I think you do, Detective Anderson.” Calhoun pockets the wallet and shoves the tip of the bat against Connors sternum, forcing him to sit straight. He leaves it pressed there, digging in against Connor’s heaving chest. “Someone talked. No way you'd be following me all day if someone hasn't squealed on us.” At Connor’s surprised look, Calhoun smirks. “Yeah, don't think we didn't notice you and your partner dressed like assholes.”

He should deescalate the situation if he hopes to survive, but he needs information, and Calhoun seems the type to let information slip when riled up. Connor considers his options for only a moment. “I’m actually surprised you noticed us at all, considering we’d been tailing you for three days, not just one. Should I be impressed at your observational skills, or astounded by your lack of them?”

Leaning his weight against the handle, the bat digs into Connor’s sternum, and he grunts as the air is forced out of him, chest aching under the pressure.

“You’re pretty mouthy for someone who’s tied to a chair. Unless this is your thing,” Calhoun laughs, a tinge of anger to the sound. “Actually, gotta admit, I thought you were an android, with how damn pretty you are. That's why I had them take you. Thought we’d wring you for the snitch and then put you in with the rest of our haul.” Calhoun shrugs dismissively, though the scowl on his lips betrays him, and the weight releases from Connor’s chest. He sucks in a deep breath as Calhoun saunters around the back of the chair, out of sight.

Connor’s shoulders tense and then the wooden bat cracks across his arms. A shout rips from his mouth. He lurches forward instinctively as he’s struck a second time, a third, a fourth, until he loses count and his arms are radiating pure fire, his wrists biting into the zip tie as he strains away. He grinds his teeth, swallowing down the noises trying to escape, chest heaving.

He doesn't realise he’s closed his eyes until the blows finally stop and he cracks them open. Calhoun steps around to his front again, setting the tip of his bat to Connor’s chin, forcing his head up.

“Fuck, you're such a pretty boy,” Calhoun says, almost breathless. “So, who’s the little bitch that ratted on us? If you tell us, we’ll let you walk of here and back to your partner with just a couple of bruises.”

Relief courses through Connor and the pain seems to subside just that little bit. “So he’s still alive,” Connor says, and Calhoun’s smirk drops as he realizes what he’s said. “I’m afraid I can’t reveal any information about ongoing investigations at this time. But rest assured, my partner is more than capable of finding my location.”

The bat clatters to the ground as Calhoun grabs a handful of Connor’s hair, jerking his head back and slamming his fist into Connor’s face repeatedly. Each strike crunches against his nose, mouth, cheek. Blood gushes down his lips and chin, filling his mouth, and his eyes sting at the throbbing radiating through his face. When the blows stop his brain feels scrambled, and it takes a moment for his fluttering eyes to focus on Calhoun again. His head is being held up by the tight grip in his hair, and Calhoun puts a hand to Connor’s chin, thumb swiping across his lips and smearing blood across his cheek.

“What a pretty boy,” Calhoun mutters, and shakes Connor’s head by the grip in his hair. He closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness and the foul breath that blows across his face. “Who’s the snitch?”

His lips burn from where they smashed against his teeth, but he purses them and spits a gob of bloody saliva across Calhoun’s cheek. Another punch slams across his face, and Calhoun releases his hair, lifting his shirt to frantically rub Connor’s blood off his face with a sound of disgust.

Connor smiles, one of his awkward and insincere ones, made all the more ghastly by the blood staining his teeth, as he says, “I can say with certainty that it’s not me.”

“Don’t worry, pretty boy, we’ll make you talk,” Calhoun says, snatching the bat up and passing it off to the man with the tattoo. “Have at it, man. Just leave off on the face, alright? I wanna do that myself.”

-

_ Rain falls in a miserable drizzle, dampening Connor’s thick jacket and slowly soaking his jeans. It hangs cold in the air as Connor leans against his car, letting smoke drift from his lips, watching the spectators around the Ortiz house distantly. He should be in there, doing his job, but the moment the officer in charge of the scene had mentioned an android was their likely suspect, he’d had to retreat, overwhelmed by the swell of anxiety and dread rising up his throat. It’s been twenty minutes. He needs to go in. _

_ He takes another drag. _

_ Headlights wash over him, and he turns his head, squinting into the light, watching a figure emerge from the autocab that pulls to the curb behind his car. They look around for a moment, scanning the crowd slowly, until they glance his way. Connor can barely make out anything past the bright headlights, but they can see him clearly, and start his way. Only when the cab pulls off, and his vision readjusts to the yellow sodium street lamps, does Connor clearly see the glowing blue band, the triangle, the LED. _

_ The android steps through the mud and weeds at the side of the road and, when it reaches Connor’s side, offers a hand expectantly, saying, “Hey, I’m Hank, the android sent by CyberLife. Nice to meet you. Detective Connor Anderson, right?” _

_ It’s wearing a crisp gray and black CyberLife android uniform, and the model number indicates it’s an HK800. What’s throwing Connor off, though, is the silver hair pulled into a small ponytail, the beard, the light lines in its face, the casual use of his first name. If not for the LED and the uniform, he would think this thing was a human. Connor stares at the offered hand blankly, and after a moment of silence, awkward even by Connor’s standards, the android drops it. _

_ “I’ve been sent to assist you on the deviancy case, so we’ll be working together from now on,” it says, frowning slightly. _

_ “I don’t need a partner,” Connor says automatically, matching Hank’s frown with one of his own. Deviancy case? Since when was he investigating deviants? “Please return to Captain Stern and let her know I’m more than capable of working on this case myself.” He pointedly doesn’t think of the twenty minutes he’s spent smoking in the rain. There’s a knot of anger forming in his stomach, that she would send an android of all things to be his partner, and that she would put him on a case like this. She knows how he feels about them. _

_ Hank shakes its head with a small frown. “Sorry, no can do. Now, what can you tell me about the scene so far?” _

_ Connor’s eyebrows shoot up. “Excuse me? That was an order, HK800. Return to Captain Stern.” He manages to keep his voice level, and none of the spectators hanging around the holotape glance his way. _

_ “Yeah, and my own orders override yours,” Hank says dismissively. “Now, you can tell me what you know, or I’ll figure it out myself. Either way, I’m your partner now. Glad to be working with you, Connor.” _

_ The irreverent attitude only tightens the knot of anger. What kind of android is this? He’s heard of the HK series, an older model of police android, but they definitely didn’t look like this. They were like any other model, young looking, blonde, beautiful but not inhumanely so. Standard CyberLife androids. Was this thing defective? _

_ “I’m not working with an  _ android, _ ” Connor spits the word, but the thing doesn’t even flinch in the face of his sudden vitriol. _

_ It huffs, lips twisting in a mildly annoyed frown, and then plucks the cigarette from Connor’s hand as he brings it to his lips. “This shit’ll kill you,” Hank says, grinding it between its fingers. “Now let’s get a move on, Connor.” _

_ Hank drops it to the grass despite the garbage can parked mere feet away at the curb and heads towards the police line. Connor watches the embers sputter in the mud and die, and sucks in a deep breath. He holds it, forcing down the anger, the anxiety, the dread, then lets it out in a quiet sigh. He needs to go back in there. He can work with an android for twenty minutes. He’ll talk with Captain Stern tomorrow, get her to put the android with someone else and take him off the case. _

_ It’s only for tonight. _

**-**

He doesn’t pass out, but he almost wishes he could. It’s a miracle the man with the tattoo doesn’t break any of Connor’s bones, but maybe that’s why Calhoun handed the bat off to him in the first place. His shoulders and arms are on fire, his stomach and chest ache with each breath, and his calves and knees are nothing but bright pinpoints of pain. It’s the worst physical pain Connor has ever felt, and they’ve left him room for more.

Connor grits his teeth and gives them nothing but his standard spiel when talking to the public and reporters. “I’m afraid I don’t have any more information for you,” “I’m not at liberty to say,” “Unfortunately I can’t disclose those details right now.” It’s satisfying watching Calhoun’s face twist with fury at each of his dodges, but Connor maintains a passive facade the best he can between rounds with the bat.

Until tattoo man runs the bat up the inside of his splayed thighs softly. He can’t stop the catch of his breath, and it makes Calhoun smirk. The younger man licks his lips. A shiver runs down Connor’s spine that has nothing to do with the cold. Then the bat crashes down across his legs, driving all thought away.

They get tired of the baseball bat when short, sharp yells are the only sound they manage to tear from him. Calhoun orders the younger one to stay, and he and Tattoo leave the room. For a brief moment, Connor sees a painted white concrete wall beyond the steel door, and a simple knob with no lock. Then it closes, leaving Connor struggling to steady his harsh breaths and the young man watching him closely.

It could be days before the DPD pick up Calhoun’s tracks again, especially now that the man knows he’s being watched and being informed on. Connor has no idea how he’s going to survive or escape. He can’t get enough leverage in this position to break any of the ties, he has a guard, no weapon, and no idea where he is in this building or how many people there may be.

The young man takes a seat by the table and pulls out his phone, glancing up every few seconds to watch Connor. Silence descends on them, and Connor tries not to focus on the way everything hurts and the slick blood he can feel pooling around the ziptie from his struggling.

Did Hank get hurt when he was taken? He can’t really remember what happened, just pain and then darkness. The back of his head still throbs a steady beat in time with his arms and legs. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he was kidnapped, but he’s a decent judge of how much time passes, and they sit in dead silence for an hour.

His eyes flick to the young man as the hour slides by, catching his eyes every now and then and staring at him flatly. The young man doesn’t seem deterred, and his stares drag on longer as one hour ticks to two. It’s disconcerting, and Connor tenses each time those green eyes catch his.

Connor’s thoughts stray to Hank, how worried he must be, and he feels guilty for putting Hank through this. He should have been more aware of their surroundings, and caught on quicker that Calhoun was dragging them into some kind of trap. Hopefully the DPD find him soon, but he doesn’t know how long he’s already been gone. Hank may be an android, but Connor will give him a very stern talking to if he neglects himself while searching for Connor. He’ll have to stop by home to feed Judo at least, so hopefully Hank will let himself rest while he’s there.

At three hours Connor realizes he’s trembling, and his stomach rolls alarmingly, but there’s nothing for it to give up. It’s a familiar sensation, and as soon as the thought crosses his mind his stomach growls. He hasn’t eaten in a while, and the last thing he ate was a protein bar. Before that he hadn’t eaten for hours.

The young man glances back at Connor at the sound, and smiles slightly. It’s almost a friendly look, and Connor’s eyes narrow as the man snags the brown paper bag from the table. He fishes through it for a moment, then comes up with a burger wrapped in white paper gone shiny from grease—exactly the kind Hank is always harassing him to buy. The man stands and walks over, folding the paper down, revealing limp, oily lettuce and a ketchup-smeared bun.

“Hey, sounds like you’re hungry. Wanna bite?” the man asks, light and amiable, and Connor tenses, saying nothing. “Come on, I’ll give you some if you just tell us who the snitch is.”

Connor huffs an incredulous laugh through his nose and turns his face away, keeping his mouth shut. He’s gone this long with minimal food before—it’s a familiar habit to ignore his body’s responses, to substitute cigarettes and work for the nausea of eating. Just the sight of the burger ramps his queasiness up, and he’s certainly not going to fold over it. Either this guy is new to getting information out of people, or he has some ulterior motive.

“Promise it’s not poisoned or whatever,” he says, and takes a bite of the burger, as if to prove a point. Through a mouth full of food, “I’m Gene, by the way.”

“Thank you, it will be good to have a name to put on our booking record. I’ll be sure to remember it,” Connor says, nose scrunching at the half-chewed food.

Gene actually laughs, a small, amused sound. “Come on, is protecting some creep really worth this? Just give us a name, and we’ll let you go.” Licking his lips again, Gene’s eyes rake up and down Connor’s body.

Connor suppresses a shiver and glares. “Rest assured, I don’t have any information about the informant for you.”

“If you wanna be that way, fine. But I’ve got another burger if you get hungry enough, and feel like trading.” Tilting his head slightly, blonde hair falling across his forehead, Gene smiles, pearly teeth showing between his lips. It’s disarming, or meant to be, but Connor only feels all the more on edge for it. “You can trade other things if you want, too, pretty boy.”

Connor’s getting very tired of that moniker. He lets silence answer for him, and Gene returns to his chair. Connor ignores the prickling of his skin when he thinks Gene is looking. The whorl of dark brown surrounding the drain draws his eyes, and he tries not to imagine how much of his own blood is going to pattern the concrete before this is over.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your sweet comments, I'm so glad to see some readers from my other fics, and it makes me so happy that y'all would check this fic out! ;o; There is a pretty graphic noncon scene this chapter, and as always, the scene containing it has a double dash scene break at the beginning.
> 
> If you're looking for more Connor whump in the same vein as this fic, and you haven't seen it already, please consider giving my other fic, [Fish in a Bowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15315237/chapters/35532699), a read! It is already completed, and should tide you over until the next chapter of this lol.
> 
> If you've already read my other fic, my friend Kai has posted a short fic as well, [Canines Too Sharp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16004570), which I highly recommend for some good, gut-wrenching Connor whump that destroyed my heart.

_ His dark home is lit by the blue-white glow of Judo’s fishtank, casting soft shadows across the living room. Connor takes his jacket off carefully, folding it across the back of the sofa, fingers lingering on the worn cuffs. Dropping his keys by the tank, Connor leans down to watch the blue and gold betta bob along the glass excitedly. He wonders if Judo can tell the difference. _

_ If Judo knows he isn’t Nines. _

_ Probably not. _

_ He opens the top and shakes fish food into it. Judo picks the flakes from the water for a moment, before flitting back to the glass, mouth working open and closed steadily, expectantly. There’s a small plastic basket of toys on the tank’s other side—things Nines picked out when he bought the betta. Floating decorations, a hand mirror, dry erase markers, post-its shaped like fish, and ping pong balls. _

_ Connor picks a ping pong ball and drops it through the opening. Judo follows the motion of his hand with interest, and bounces around the floating ball, poking it once to send it gliding along the surface. His lips tick up in a small smile, and Connor straightens with a tired sigh as Judo darts at the ball again. _

_ In the kitchen, he flips the light, revealing the spotless and bare counters, as clean if it was unused, which it mostly is. He takes a seat at the sturdy wooden table that came with the place, dragging his ashtray close and digging a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights up, taking a deep drag, the cool menthol sensation filling his lungs and rushing over his tongue on the exhale of smoke. Hands trembling, fumbling, nearly dropping the cigarette when he taps the ash off. He should eat. It’s been a while since the energy bar at the convenience store. With Hank. _

_ At the thought of the android, Connor drops his face into his hands, palms rubbing hard against his eyes. Captain Stern’s insistence that he handle the deviancy case drags a sigh from deep in his chest. He’d argued, as politely as he could, voice rising in agitation, but it had been useless against her firm glare and quiet reminder of her thinning patience with how quickly he’s gone through partners. _

_ It’s not his fault that everyone she sticks him with can’t keep up. He’s not rude, or not intentionally, just placidly polite and blunt when he needs to be. It’s the long hours he keeps that drives them away, throwing himself into every case unrelentingly, barely stopping to sleep, eating only when absolutely necessary, pulling overtime until Amanda forces him to go home with threats of days off. Maybe that’s why she’s finally stuck him with a partner that can’t fall behind. _

_ Hank is apparently a fancy prototype, a rework of the old HK police line of androids, modeled closely on grizzled, heart-of-gold detective stereotypes. Meant to instill security and confidence in humans and deviants alike, so that he could better hunt. Or at least, that was Hank’s explanation when Connor had finally given into his curiosity and asked him about it while he picked at the energy bar. _

_ But Hank does things and Connor can’t tell if it’s programming or something else. He’s coarse and casual and nothing like an android. When they had chased the TR400 and the little girl, Hank had stopped him from climbing the fence and continuing the chase onto the highway. Shouldn’t Hank have wanted to continue the chase? And why should it matter if Connor attempted to? Then Hank had saved him from falling off the roof, despite the fact that it meant the deviant they were chasing got away. _

_ His stomach twists and the shaking in his hands gets worse. Connor presses a hand to his stomach over his shirt, and then can’t help sliding them up, fingering the too-prominent ridges of his ribs. He should eat something more substantial than cereal bars, but he doesn’t have much else besides that, and revulsion rises in his throat at the thought. _

_ He doesn’t have the energy for this. He needs to pass out for however long he can manage. Even an hour. Maybe when he wakes up all of this—being assigned an android partner and working on the deviancy case—will have just been another nightmare. _

_ When he wakes up, when he hasn’t been staring at androids all day, he’ll try to eat something better than food made into bars and hope he can manage it. For now, a cereal bar will do. Setting the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, he stands. _

_ Inky darkness pools in Connor's vision at the sudden head rush, and he sways, the world tilting around him. He reaches out blindly for the table edge. Something hits his leg, or maybe he hits the chair, and it feels like diving off a ledge. His stomach lurches into his throat but he plummets into darkness and doesn’t stop falling. _

_ Blinking it away, he finds dark blue eyes staring down at him, his cheek stinging. His head is full of cotton, and he squints up at Hank, haloed by the incandescent kitchen lights, trying to remember why he’s on the floor, or when Hank got here. _

_ “Hey, Connor, you okay? Your blood sugar levels are real fucked up—you need to eat.” There’s a furrow between Hank’s brows, a small frown. _

_ “What?” Connor says, mouth dry, feeling too sluggish to process anything. All he can focus on is the sound of that rough voice, and the solid arm that slides under his back and pulls him into a sitting position. _

_ “I said, you need to eat, Connor. Come on.” _

_ It finally registers that an android is in his house, and Connor groans as Hank drags his arm over his shoulder and hoists him to his feet. “What are you doing in my house, Hank?” _

_ “We got a new case. I came to get you, but you didn’t answer your door. Saw you passed out through the back window.” As Hank speaks, Connor can feel the rumble of his voice through his chest, where their sides are pressed together. It’s pleasant, warm, and Connor misses the feeling as soon as Hank sets him in the chair and moves away. “Anyways, sorry about your door. I’ll send the bill to CyberLife.” _

_ Connor drags his head around to his back door, hidden in the back corner of the kitchen, and only now notices the chill air blowing in and the busted door knob on the floor. He turns a glare on Hank. “You broke into my house?” he says, and his voice pitches up at the end, incredulous. _

_ Hank just shrugs, the corner of his mouth lifting in a small smirk. “Had to make sure you weren’t dead. I need you for the case.” _

_ Right. The case. Connor reaches for his cigarette and finds it’s burned down to the filter. He must have been out for a while. He curls his trembling fingers into a fist against the table instead. Breathe in. Breathe out. _

_ “Alright,” he says after a moment. “Let’s go.” _

_ He pushes himself to his feet, and before Hank’s, “Hey, wait a second—” is even fully out, Connor’s knees turn to water and he stumbles back into the seat, sweat suddenly pouring off of him. Taking a shaky breath, he waits as the dark spots fade from his sight. _

_ “Are you out of your mind?” Hank snaps, arms outstretched like he was halfway to grabbing Connor. “Fucking human, you need to eat something. Don’t move.” He lets them drop and looks around the kitchen, LED whirring yellow as he scans it. After a moment he heads to the fridge, and before Connor has a chance to tell Hank not to bother, he opens it, and then just pauses at the sterile, white interior. _

_ Slowly, Hank turns, and the look on his face is confused, almost angry. “What the fuck? Where’s your food?” _

_ Connor’s eyes drop to the floor. He can’t say that he used to do all the shopping when it was him and Nines. Can’t say how then it was just him, and he’d kept going each week, buying things on reflex—Nines’ favorite tea, milk for his coffee, clementines for more than a single person’s lunch, wheat and white bread because they each preferred different kinds. He’d come home and the lights would be dark and the sudden reminder that Nines was gone would be like hitting a glass wall he’d forgotten was there. _

_ Food turned his stomach, and he stopped going shopping because everything he bought went bad. He couldn’t make himself eat anything without wanting to throw up, so he’d cleaned it all out, thrown away the rotting fruit, the soured milk, the stale bread. He shoved the tea to the back of a cabinet to appease the chastisement Nines would have given him for the waste, and then never bothered to buy anything more than cereal bars and trail mix. _

_ But he can’t say any of that, so he lifts a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. _

_ He hears Hank opening cabinets, closing them at each empty one he finds, until a white box lands on the table next to Connor, sliding across the wood, startling him. The little cartoon frog on the front grins back at him. _

_ “All you have is tea and cereal bars. What the fuck, Connor?” Hank says. _

_ Shoes appear in Connor’s field of vision, and he finally glances up at Hank’s furrowed brow and frown. It takes far too long for Connor to place the emotion. _

_ Concern. _

_ White hot anger fills Connor. It’s not any of this android’s business that he has no food—he’s functioning perfectly well at his job, and that’s all that matters. But he shoves it down before it can show on his face, and says, as blandly as he can manage, “I seem to have forgotten to go shopping. My mistake.” _

_ Hank snorts, nodding disbelievingly. “Yeah, sure, and next you’re gonna tell me the dust on the dishes is because you haven’t had time to cook.” _

_ “I don’t see how that would be any of your business if it is,” Connor says, digging his nails into his palms. _

_ Hank shoots him an unimpressed look. “I need you, Connor. Without you, I won’t be allowed to investigate the crime scene and complete my mission. So come on, we’ll get you something to eat on the way to the scene. Eat one of those,” he nods to the box of cereal bars, “I don’t want you passing out again.” _

_ His stomach drops at the words, and he feels strangely disappointed. Of course that’s why Hank is showing concern. He’s programmed to, for the sake of his mission. Connor feels stupid, suddenly, for thinking Hank was doing anything other than it’s job. _

_ So he nods silently, pulls the last bar from the box, and stares at the ashes in the bottom of the tray as he chews mechanically. _

**\--**

The line between boredom and vigilance is a knife’s edge, and by the fourth hour Connor is exhausted by the balancing act, fighting to keep his mind from wandering, to maintain a watch for any opportunity or trouble. Gene continues playing on his phone, stealing looks every now and then, but saying nothing. It’s another two hours before the metal door squeaks open on rusty hinges and Calhoun enters with Tattoo in tow. Connor comes to full alertness—again he sees that flash of white painted concrete, but nothing else.

“Gene, come on, let’s show him what we do with the new plastics.” Calhoun snaps his fingers and Gene jumps from his seat and circles around the chair, eyes flicking to Connor’s face with an excited smile as he pulls a switchblade from one pocket.

He hears the  _ snick  _ of the blade, and tugging on the ziptie. It sends a throb of pain up his arms, and then Connor’s arms fall limp against his sides, pins and needles running across his hands and wrists. His shoulders feel stretched out, and he forces himself to move. Blood beads in the raw red indents of his wrists, staining the cuffs of the striped shirt. Each touch aches.

As Gene works, Calhoun speaks. “We did take you thinking you were an android, after all. May as well put you to work. You might not last as long, but damn if it won’t be good, pretty boy. Or, you can always just give us what we want. Then we might reconsider.” His smile is all teeth, predatory, and Connor feels a chill down his spine.

Gene sinks to his knees, and Connor feels the tug on the ziptie of one leg before its freed. He waits, feels the same tug on the other, and as soon as the restriction is gone, kicks the young man in the face and springs up. Pain shoots through his thighs and knees, and black spots bloom in his vision, but Calhoun and the tattooed man are closing in, and Connor twists and grabs the back of the chair, picking it up and swinging it around with all the force he can muster in his throbbing arms.

Calhoun throws his hands up, but the chair nearly knocks him to the ground. Connor loses his grip on it and it clatters to the floor, throwing his fists up instead when the tattooed man steps forward. Tattoo’s first swing misses by a mile as Connor lunges beneath the fist and strikes the man twice in the ribs. Doubling over, Tattoo clutches his chest and Connor knees him in the face. His entire leg goes numb with the strike but Tattoo hits his knees with a garbled shout.

Something grabs his leg—Connor lifts his other to kick Gene away again, but Calhoun tackles him and they both go down. His head bounces off the concrete and his vision flashes with white sparks. A weight lands on his stomach and he almost retches again, nausea and pain clawing up his throat. Calhoun leans over him, scrabbling to capture Connor’s arms—Connor inhales and then jerks up, slamming his forehead into Calhoun’s chin.

His vision greys but the weight falls to the side. Connor rolls, struggling up on his elbows and knees. Hands grab his legs and hips, and then a hand plants itself on the back of his head, shoving him down and holding him there. He scrabbles at the rough concrete, trying to push himself up, but a foot comes down on one of his hands and he sucks air through his teeth to hold in a scream.

“Fuck, pretty boy, you got some fight in you,” Calhoun says, lifting Connor by the hair and slamming his head into the concrete. His vision swims, but he kicks out at whoever’s holding his hips. His head meets the concrete again and his vision goes dark. He feels his hips being raised up, his pants being forced down, and alarm shoots through him, muddled by a veil of pain and disorientation.

Digging his knees into the floor, ripping his fingers from underneath the foot, Connor lunges forward with all his strength. The grip in his hair slips, and he’s halfway up before Tattoo kicks him in the ribs sharply, knocking the air out of him. He collapses, and then hands grab his hips, his arms scraping across the cold floor as they drag him back.

Calhoun finds purchase in his hair again and shoves his cheek into the concrete. Gene grabs an arm and twists, and he can feel the dirty sole of a shoe digging into his other elbow. His pants and underwear are yanked down his thighs, legs trapping his own, and a stinging slap across his ass startles him.

His heart is pounding, and he can’t stop the wide-eyed look he shoots Gene, who is watching his face intently, hungrily, as he twists Connor’s arm up and back.

Straining his head around further, shoulders and arms screaming, he sees Calhoun spit into his hand and jerk his dick, which is hanging out of his pants half hard. The sight has a whine building in Connor’s chest, but he clenches his teeth against it and bucks, trying to throw the weight pinning his legs. The hand in his hair picks him up and slams him down, and he goes limp.

Over the ringing in his ears, all Connor can hear is the slick sounds of Calhoun working himself and his own frantic breaths. His throat clicks as he swallows against the panic.

“I s-suggest you stop now,” he manages. “If you c-c-continue with this assault your sentences will only be more s-severe.” The stutter takes the authority out of the words, and Connor’s face heats.

“Shit, it's cute you think someone is actually gonna find you,” Calhoun laughs, and Connor feels the hand leave his hair and pull his cheeks apart, exposing him. “Hey Benny, you wanna put his mouth to good use? I'm tired of hearing him bitch.”

Tattoo, Benny, makes a noise of interest. Connor’s face scrapes the gritty concrete as he turns to see the man undoing his pants. The moment he lifts his leg from Connor’s arm, he grabs at Benny’s ankle. He doesn't have a plan, just a need to disrupt this, to halt it for even a moment longer.

Before he registers the movement, Benny kicks out, and Connor can't contain the shout that tears from his throat as it connects solidly with his ribs again. A hand grabs his wrist, yanking it behind him with the other, lifting him from the floor enough for Benny to take him by the hair and jerk Connor towards his dick.

“Don't bite,” Benny says, the first words Connor's heard the man say, as he pulls the revolver from his holster. “Or I'll shove this down your throat instead and we'll play Russian Roulette.”

Benny isn't even hard, but he drags Connor's face against his crotch anyways. He keeps his mouth firmly shut, struggling against the grip, away from the soft, sweaty flesh. To his horror, he feels tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and he hardens his expression, trying to will them away.

“Open up you little cunt,” Benny barks, slamming the butt of his revolver against Connor's cheek.

The room pulses in and out in flashes, spinning like a playground carousel. He can’t push himself up against the centrifugal forces of the hands holding him in place, his own self-sabotaging habits, the throbbing of his head and arms and legs.

Something shoves against his asshole, too thin to be anything but Calhoun’s fingers, wet with spit. Connor inhales sharply through his teeth as they dig in, immediately scissoring before he even has a chance to adjust.

Benny jams the revolver into Connor’s temple and growls. “Open your fucking mouth, bitch.”

He barely hears the command. The fingers in his ass shove in and out, flexing—a crude parody of real preparation. It's too quick, too dry even with the spit, and it burns. And then they're gone and something else is probing at his hole. His mouth drops open in a strained cry as the barely lubricated cock works its way into him.

His head is yanked forward onto Benny’s still mostly soft dick. The taste of salt and sweat and ammonia fills Connor’s nose and mouth, and he gags against it, stomach rising.

Calhoun stills, cursing. “You’re too fucking dry. This is why I prefer androids—they got that lube shit built in.” After a moment, Connor feels a glob of saliva hit his ass, and Calhoun pulls out to scoops it up and rub across his dick.

The burn of Calhoun pulling out has Connor’s jaw tensing, but he forces himself not to bite down when the gun nudges his temple.

“Start sucking, you little slut,” Benny says, pulling and pushing Connor by his hair.

Connor shuts his eyes against the sting of budding tears, swallows down the revulsion, and closes his lips around the dick. It’s sour, beginning to harden in his mouth. He tries to focus on nothing but the motion of his tongue and mouth as he bobs under Benny’s persistent hand. Not the slow swelling of flesh filling his mouth, or the cock nudging his entrance again, pushing past the ring of muscle. Still too dry, too tight, but Calhoun doesn’t stop.

Freezing, Connor tries to relax, to let it go in easier, but he’s panting and shaking and it feels like he’s being torn apart. A sound escapes him, choked against the dick pressing insistently into his throat.

He thinks, unwillingly, of Hank, and blinks rapidly, forcing the tears back. He can do this. Hank is waiting for him. He can take a fucking and suck a dick long enough for his partner to come to his rescue. He’s been stabbed, he’s been shot—he lost his best friend and brother to this job. This is nothing, just another case to work through and solve.

Breath escapes him in a rush as Calhoun tires of taking his time and rams the rest of the way. Connor’s cry is garbled and breathless, and it only makes Benny laugh. Lances of pain drive through his spine and he knows something tore. Neither of them give Connor a chance to adjust. Calhoun pulls out and thrusts in and Benny shakes him roughly and Connor tries to think of Hank, cradling his face, scowling with that tilt to his lips, like a smile is lurking just beneath.

It takes too long. Connor’s jaw begins to ache as he struggles to keep a steady motion and not bite down. His hole burns with each thrust, forcing little choked whimpers from his throat. After a while it gets slicker, and the thrusting become smoother, and Connor knows it’s his blood easing the way. Each movement against his torn hole sears through him.

He hates that he’s thankful they haven’t taken his shirt off. He doesn’t want them to see the entire pathetic history of his downward spiral stamped in the ridges of his ribs. Only Hank has ever seen him so completely, and Connor latches onto that. They haven’t taken anything from him, not really.

Benny groans above him, and the hand in Connor’s hair yanks him still. His hips piston against Connor’s face, and then he buries himself in Connor’s throat. Connor gags and gasps as pulsing, hot come fills his throat. Pulling against the grip in his hair and on his arms, he tries to make room so he doesn’t choke, but he doesn’t have the energy or the leverage, and after a long minute of coughing and fighting for breath, Benny lets his dick slide out.

Come drips from his lips, and Connor hacks, panicking at the feel of it sliding down his esophagus. He retches, chest heaving, and then pain ruptures through his skull as Benny strikes him with the butt of the revolver.

Calhoun comes as Connor hangs limply by his arms. He registers Calhoun pulling out, and fluid dripping down his ass and thighs, but it’s muddled. Someone grabs him around the torso, hoisting him up, and his arms are released. He thinks, distantly, that there’s a chance to make an escape, but his vision is going in and out and his legs won’t move.

Dark brown eyes fill his sight, and Connor barely has the strength to meet them. Calhoun tucks himself away while he stares Connor down with a sordid little smile.

“Not as good as an android, but I gotta admit, I like the way you bleed red,” Calhoun says, voice far away, underwater. “I gotta take care of some business, but when I come back, I hope you’ll have some answers for me. If not, well, I’ve got more fun things we can do. Doesn’t really work with an android, but with a human?” A tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I think you’ll like this next game.”

“I’m—” Connor shudders at the twinge along his jaw and cheeks. His words feels syrupy and thick in his mouth. “I’m not that easy to-to beat.”

Calhoun’s smile turns mean, and he pats Connor sharply on the cheek, across the bruises. Then Connor’s dropped onto the chair and his arms are gathered behind him again, being zipped to the back. Eyes clench against the tilting room, the rush of lightheadedness.

Forcing them open, he thinks, for a moment, he’s in his kitchen, watching dazedly as Hank opens his fridge and shoots him that confused, angry look.

He shrugs apologetically and closes his eyes.

**-**

_ There’s a digital picture frame on the coffee table, a slow slideshow of photos of Connor and Nines graduating from the police academy, setting up Judo’s tank, in uniform in front of the police station, as kids sitting on the carousel at the park, a selfie of the two of them in the car, and others. They fade in and out, and Connor has their order memorized—he spends far too many nights sitting on the couch doing nothing but watching the frame. _

_ When Connor feels strong enough to climb to his feet, he glances over the bar separating the kitchen from the living room and finds it in Hank’s hands. The android stands beside the coffee table, watching it, his LED circling yellow. An irrational surge of fear blinds Connor. He rushes into the room and snatches the frame with more force than he intends, and then just stands there, holding it against his suddenly aching chest. _

_ “Wow, jeez, I was just looking,” Hank says, throwing his hands in the air and rolling his eyes. _

_ Connor doesn’t have it in him to even be annoyed. He takes a deep breath to calm his hammering heart, to stuff the fear and anxiety back below the racing current of his thoughts. His fingers are tight around the edges of the frame, knuckles bone white. _

_ “Who is that, anyways?” Hank asks, when Connor does nothing more than stand there blankly holding the frame. “Your twin?” _

_ It takes far too long for Connor to answer, and when he does, he can’t keep the tightly laced anger from showing through the seams. “Yes,” he says shortly, finally getting his arms to obey him and setting the frame face down on the table. Why does Hank even bother asking? He can access the records in seconds and find out anyways. _

_ “Looks just like you,” Hank says, either oblivious to the cool atmosphere, or ignoring it. _

_ “That’s the nature of twins sometimes,” Connor says stiffly as he scoops his keys and wallet up. The ping pong ball in the fish tank bobs by the water filter, and Judo flits up to greet Connor’s hand when he reaches in and plucks it out, dropping it into the bowl of toys. Hank joins him at his side, watching, and Connor tries not to tense at his presence by his elbow. _

_ Hank’s eyebrows tilt up in confusion and interest, his LED spiralling yellow again before sliding back to blue. “Let’s get going,” Hank says, and Connor doesn’t sigh or relax, but his jaw loosens as Hank turns towards the door without mentioning Nines or Judo or his empty fridge. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, please drop me a comment if you enjoyed the very terrible things I'm doing to our favorite boy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Kai](https://kai152.tumblr.com/) drew some art to motivate me while writing this story! I have included a link to it in the end notes, because it is explicit noncon and I figured I probably shouldn't throw that in without warning. I actually tailored the relevant scene to fit her art better cause I just love how painful it is. Thank you Kai! :Smooches:
> 
> This first section contains noncon, while the second section contains some non-consensual touching, so I went ahead and put those double dashes there just in case.
> 
> Something I hadn't thought to add to the story tags, but which I do want to warn for in this chapter and the next, are thoughts of suicide, so please be aware of that.

The room is empty of even Gene when Connor wakes up again, and he’s left with nothing but his cramping muscles and bruises. His pants and underwear are completely gone, though he doesn’t remember them being taken, leaving him in nothing but his striped shirt, socks, and sock garters.

Hank likes to make fun off them, says they made Connor look uptight. But it never stops him from staring when Connor undresses, doesn’t stop Hank running his palms up Connor’s legs and snapping the elastic just to hear Connor yelp and laugh. He also says Connor’s fashion sense is terrible, but considering Hank still wears the CyberLife uniform even months after the revolution, Connor figures he doesn’t have much room to talk.

It brings a trembling smile to Connor’s face, until he shifts in his seat and reopens the tears in his skin, making him hiss. He can’t bring himself to look between his thighs at the blood, semen, and spit he can feel caking his thighs.

No one comes for a very long time—Connor doesn’t fall asleep so much as close his eyes against a dizzy spell and wake up some indeterminate time later. The only reason he’s sure time has passed is the sour, cottony feeling of his mouth. He tests his wrists against the zipties, but every jerk just makes his head and arms pound and irritates his wrists.

They’re going to come back eventually, and ask him to give up the informant, but he won’t tell them anything. Rupert is just a scared young man being taken advantage of because others are stronger than him. He was caught up in their operation when they expanded their territory, homeless and caring for pigeons in an abandoned building. They used him to scout out and locate androids that they could kidnap and, according to Rupert, reset and resell on the black market. Some buy the androids for parts; others buy them as collectors pieces, relics of a bygone era that was only months ago; and still others buy them as slaves, as if the android revolution never happened.

He tries not to think about how, before meeting Hank, he wouldn’t have cared for Rupert’s story. It’s not that he would have condemned Rupert for his actions—he simply wouldn’t have cared at all. He was going through the motions then, and for three years those motions included pretending he wasn’t an empty husk that didn’t have the guts to finish what Daniel started.

Hank had changed everything—had lit a fire of resentment and anger in him that grew into something brighter and less painful to hold. Connor still has his bad habits, but Hank reminds him constantly that he needs to eat, forces him to go home at the end of the day, steals his cigarettes, runs his hands through Connor’s hair to ease him into finally sleeping. Connor thought he was going to burn himself out and die young—whether from a criminal or from his own self destructive tendencies.

But he’s still here. Most days he wants to keep being here. With Hank.

The door screeches open.

He doesn’t jump—he doesn’t have the energy. Calhoun enters first, then Benny, arms bulging with the strain of the large, paint-spattered bucket he lugs into the room. Water sloshes over the sides, slapping the concrete. Gene closes the door behind them, a bruise blooming blue across his cheek from where Connor kicked him. They’re watching Connor, but Connor only has eyes for the bucket, dread unfurling in his chest.

“So, is there’s something you’d like to tell us, pretty boy?” Calhoun asks, faux-casual as he saunters over with his hands in his pockets. He’s changed clothes, wearing jeans and another Detroit tank top. They’re all wearing something different, which means he’s been here at least a day. He wasn’t unconscious for too long then.

“Yes,” Connor says, keeping his expression neutral even as a smug grin breaks across Calhoun’s face. “Just that you’re wasting your time, and, again, only making things worse for yourself when the police arrive.”

The slap is not unexpected, jerking Connor’s head to the side with the force. The hand closing around his throat is. The breath Connor sucks in goes nowhere, and the grip is tight, bruising, but Connor forces himself not to struggle. The more he fights, the more Calhoun will enjoy it.

“I’m getting real fucking tired of your shit,” Calhoun says. “Tell us who the rat is, and maybe we won’t fuck you up even more. Or maybe we will, just cause that dumb look of yours is pissing me off so much.”

He stares into Calhoun’s seething face blankly, even as he feels his lungs tighten in his chest. Calhoun is a terrible negotiator—promises of safety are more effective than threats of violence. Dark spots begin to pool in Connor’s vision.

Calhoun releases him with a shove and Connor gasps, then coughs at the needles of pain pricking across his throat. They wrack his frame and each explosive exhale only makes the pricking in his throat worse. He holds his next breath and lets it out slowly, breathing shallow and slow.

“Benny, Gene, you know the drill,” Calhoun says, and they both step forward, pulling switchblades from their pockets.

Gene meets Connor’s eyes, a dry little smirk on his lips before he drops to his knees and hooks the knife under a ziptie, nicking Connor’s skin. Benny goes around the back of the chair and starts on his arms. As if by having two people on him at once, Connor won’t make another escape attempt. Connor lets them have that illusion as the first ziptie comes off his ankle. After a moment of sawing with the pocket knife, the second ziptie breaks, and Connor slams the heel of his foot into Gene’s groin as his arms are freed.

Gene falls back with a shout, clutching his crotch, and Connor shoots up from the chair. His head swims, and he takes a wobbly step, vertigo tilting the room. Someone slams into him from behind and he collapses, barely catching himself on his forearms.

“Fuck, come on you guys, can’t even keep one dude in line?” Calhoun says from somewhere above him. “Get him over here.”

He blinks blearily, and then he’s being lifted by the collar of his shirt and dragged. He scrabbles weakly at the ground, bare legs scraping against the concrete. His legs won’t move and his arms are boneless. He’s too weak, in too much pain. He can practically hear Hank in the back of his mind, admonishing him for not eating. The buttons of his shirt begin popping, and with a curse, hands release his shirt and grab him under the arms, hauling him forward, until he’s kneeling before the bucket.

A hand grabs his hair, pulling his head back until his swimming vision fixes on Calhoun’s sneering face.

“So, pretty boy. Give us a hint. The rat?”

Connor tries to focus, to make sure Calhoun sees the serious look on his face as he says,  “Rats laugh when you tickle them.”

It doesn’t earn him a slap or a punch like he expects. Instead, Calhoun gestures to Benny, who’s hand is fisted in Connor’s hair, and steps back. Benny shoves Connor’s down. He manages a breath as his chin clips the edge of the bucket, and then his face is in the water. He grips the edge, pushing back against the hand, but there’s no strength left in him. His body is too tired, too weak, too hurt.

He opens his eyes beneath the water and sees only shifting shadow and faint ribbons of blood curling from his skin. Above him, faintly, he can hear voices, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. Lungs beginning to burn, he presses up again, but the hand is immovable. His chest aches, and he shoves his hands to the concrete, straightening his elbows, shaking his head.

His vision begins to blur and spot, a too familiar sensation. He’s floating in a way entirely disconnected from his head being held in this bucket. Darkness creeps in at the edges of thought, and his eyes slip closed.

Against his will, his mouth opens in a cloud of bubbles, and he inhales. Water rushes into his mouth. He chokes.

He feels his struggles renew distantly as he swallows water, and then the hand in his hair is hauling him up. Connor breaks the surface coughing and retching, his stomach contracting, and he vomits, warm water spilling down his lips and chest. Laughter greets him and then he’s shoved in again.

There’s no time to catch a breath—he inhales more water, darkness swimming at the edges of his mind but not quite taking over. He’s pulled out again, chest heaving, vomiting again.

Calhoun grabs his chin, forcing his face up. “Prettier and prettier,” he mutters appreciatively, eyes raking across Connor’s open, gagging mouth. “Now who’s the rat? Last chance before this gets ugly.”

“I d-don’t know,” Connor says. “You’re—you’re already quite u-ugly, I’d be impre-pre-pressed if it could get much worse.”

“You little _bitch,_ ” Calhoun hisses. “Go on Benny. Fuck him up.”

Connor catches a deep lungful before his face hits the water. He’s down in the dark for only a few seconds before he feels his ass being pulled apart and something slick and wet shoving into him with no warning. Water rushes into his mouth and nose as he tries to shout, and then he’s drowning.

He’s barely aware as he’s pulled out again. Everything burns. His nose, his throat, his lungs, his eyes. He can’t tell if he’s crying—might as well be for the gasping little whimpers he can’t stop making. Hips snap against Connor’s own, the bite of a belt buckle hitting the back of his thigh.

There wasn’t even a mockery of preparation this time—his ass is being torn, blood slicking his opening and thighs. He doesn’t get a chance to dwell on it. In the next second, he’s drowning again.

He can’t keep count of how many times they do this, or how long it lasts. At one point Calhoun leans in while Benny is still rocking into him and says something. Connor can’t even hear it over his own choking gasps or the slap of flesh.

But Connor can guess, and he manages a shaky, “N-no.” It’s all he can say.

The next time he’s out, sputtering and coughing and so glad the water will hide any tears, Benny pulls him backwards, leaning over Connor’s arched back and holding his hip, fucking him hard. His knees are rubbed bloody and raw with each thrust scraping them across the ground. Connor clamps down on the noises climbing his throat.

He hopes they hold him down and don’t let him up again.

Shame fills him at the thought, and then it’s lost as he’s submerged. He shoves against the concrete, swallowing water, as hot semen fills him and Benny finally pulls out. The bucket tilts and a foot to Connor’s ribs tips the balance. He lands on the concrete sputtering, clutching his cramping stomach as water washes across the floor, soaking his side.

His eyes crack open and he watches the water, cloudy with his blood, sink into the drain and stain the concrete.

**\--**

Voices, one soft and quiet, pull him towards consciousness, but he keeps his eyes closed, ignoring their words and just listening to the sound. He’s back in the chair, ankles and wrists tied and chest aflame, but for a moment, he can almost pretend that he’s sitting at home, on the couch, while Hank watches TV. Hank likes to watch ridiculous dramas and laugh over how dramatic humans are, and Connor loves the sound of his laughter. The easy chuckles, the way the artificial lines of Hank’s face wrinkle as he smiles.

His shirt and socks stick to his skin, but they’re mostly dry, and a shiver crawls up Connor’s spine. It jars the tears in him, and his throat burns as he exhales sharply. The voices pause, and Connor finally opens his eyes to the cold concrete room and the two people watching him.

Gene is seated at the table and his outfit is different. Another day then. But the other man his new. His shoulders hunch in as Connor looks him over, so familiar despite the large jacket engulfing him to his fingertips, that it’s only when the man peeks out at Connor from beneath the brim of his cap that it clicks.

Connor’s blood runs cold, and he shudders. Do they know? Did he say something? He can’t remember much after they kicked the bucket over. He knows Calhoun had been talking, asking the same question, over and over. He remembers, through a haze, his hips being raised, being taken again on the wet floor. He doesn’t remember what he may have said, any sounds he may have made. But Rupert is here.

Gene stands, a plastic water bottle in his hands, and he twists the cap as he approaches. Rupert doesn’t move, fingers wringing together in front of him. His eyes are wide as he looks at Connor, fearful. Connor drops his stare, not wanting to call too much attention, and watches Gene instead.

He offers the uncapped bottle, lips lifting in a friendly smile, and says, “Sorry they were so rough with you.”

Connor wants drive his foot into Gene’s groin again, to knock that bottle to the floor and see it spill down the drain with the rest of the water. But his throat is dry and burning from all the coughing and choking he’s been doing. He vomited all of the water he swallowed and probably a good bit more besides.

“What’s the catch?” Connor says, eyeing the label—some generic store brand with a picture of a dove on it. Stomach knotting, he forcibly doesn’t glance at Rupert.

“The catch is we have to keep you alive, duh,” Gene says matter-of-factly. “At least for now. Feel free to tell me who the rat is, though. So you want some or what?” He tilts the bottle forward, liquid sloshing towards the mouth.

They don’t know. Relief hits him like a brick, unknotting his guts and loosening his shoulders slightly. They want to keep him alive. Whatever reason Rupert is here, it’s just coincidence. Connor hasn’t given anything up.

Instead of answering, Connor nods once, and Gene brings the bottle to his lips. The water is lukewarm and does nothing to ease the burning in his throat, but once he’s started he doesn’t want to stop. He didn’t realize how dry his mouth was. He takes several deep swallows until Gene pulls it away, still more than halfway full, and Connor has to restrain himself from chasing it.

“Thirsty, huh? I could tell. You made some pretty sounds last night.” Gene laughs, mean, and touches Connor’s knee lightly, making him jump.

“I wouldn’t classify the sound of someone drowning as particularly pretty,” Connor says coldly, shifting his leg, trying to knock the hand away. It settles heavier, dirty nails digging into the soft sides of his knee, thumb stroking. The motion is familiar, and the image it conjures up—of Hank rubbing his thumb in a slow circle in that same spot while his other hand had almost reverently explored Connor’s raised ribs—sends a sharp pang of something through his chest.

“Well you obviously weren’t hearing yourself. Trust me, you sounded great.” Gene’s hand trails white streaks across Connor’s skin as the nails scrape up his thigh, and his heart shoots into his throat.

He can’t stop the panicked look he shoots Rupert over Gene’s shoulder, who’s giving him an equally wide-eyed look of shock. Rupert shouldn’t be here—Connor doesn’t want anyone to see this, to witness what they’re doing to him. It occurs to him suddenly that they might want Rupert to join, and Connor’s stomach rolls.

Gene catches his look and his hand pauses on the sensitive skin of Connor’s inner thigh, where a trail of dry blood flakes beneath his touch, brushing the hem of Connor’s shirt. “Don’t mind him, he’s small fry.” Tilting his head into Connor’s vision, his smile turns saccharine as their eyes meet. “There we go.”

His breath freezes in his chest as Gene pushes past the hem of his shirt and strokes the length of his limp dick. The touch is feather-light and exploratory, circling his dick and brushing the head with a thumb. It’s unpleasant and Connor feels lightheaded.

“Should y-you be doing this without your boss?” Connor says, wincing at the stutter he can’t contain, the obviousness of his words. He can’t look at Rupert, who is stonestill on the other side of the room.

Snorting, Gene shakes his head. “I may not get to use that pretty ass, but he doesn’t care what I do otherwise.” He releases Connor’s dick and brings two fingers to Connor’s mouth. “Open your mouth.”

Connor does, and as soon as the fingers pass his teeth he bites down hard. Gene howls, jerking his hand, but Conner clenches down and feels skin tear. Copper fills his mouth. A fist strikes him once in the eye, then again in the temple, and only then does Connor’s jaw go lax, eyelids fluttering weakly. He wonders faintly how many concussions he’s going to have before this is over.

“You fucking cunt!” Gene swears, holding his hand tight against his chest, face red and blotchy. “Fuck me, that fucking hurt, goddammit!”

Connor let’s his head loll back, blood dripping down his chin, and the room tilts and sways on that playground carousel. A ringing starts up in his ears. Suddenly, Gene leans down and snatches the water bottle from beside the chair, tearing the top off with his teeth.

It feels like a shock as the water splashes across Connor’s face, in his mouth, his nose. Like a reflex he starts coughing, choking.

“See if you get any more water you ungrateful bitch,” Gene hisses, throwing the empty bottle to the floor. It bounces with a crinkle of cheap plastic.

Connor blinks heavily and like a timelapse video he sees Gene stalk to the door and throw it open. Rupert follows, gaze locked on the ground, and the door closes behind. Connor’s breath comes quick and shallow as his chest tightens. A noise escapes him, a small whine, and he bites his lip and grits his teeth against his stinging eyes.

**-**

_The view of the bridge across the water is cold and distant, snow falling slow and gentle. It dusts his hair and shoulders, the park bench he’s perched on the back of, the railing he’d once thought about jumping from._

_It was right after Nines died, but he didn’t have the guts._

_He hasn’t been back since, except now Connor can’t stop thinking about him, all because of these androids. Because of Hank._

_The cigarette in his hand flares as he takes a deep drag. He stares at the glowing ember as a plume of smoke rises from his lips, ignoring the sound of his car door closing. Snow crunches behind him and Connor flicks the ash into the slush. He pretends not to see Hank coming to stand by the bench._

_“Nice view,” Hank says, and then, like a bad pick-up line, “You come here a lot?”_

_The words rise from somewhere beneath his diaphragm, forcing themselves from his mouth without his permission. “When we were kids, Nines and I—” He swallows, and they die on his tongue._

_From the corner of his eye he sees Hank glance at him curiously. “Nines?” It’s all Hank says, but hearing that childhood nickname from someone other than himself is startling. A chill wind picks up, and he hears the rattle of the swingset, a squeak as the playground carousel shifts uneasily._

_It’s familiar and strange all at once. Connor’s the only one who’s ever called him Nines—a relic from when Connor was too young to understand how to say his younger brother’s name properly, still stammering through every other word. Nines was the only one who’d never lost his patience over Connor’s stutter, never hurrying him or sighing in irritation, despite the harsh, cold demeanor that only grew more pronounced as they got older._

_They used to play here as children, the one constant in their endless bouncing between foster families. Even when they were stuck in strict homes, they would sneak out and come to this park. To have fun, to hide, to pretend that maybe they’d finally find some place that wanted them._

_They hadn’t. They’d aged out of the system and had to struggle to survive. Just the two of them. Connor and Niles._

_When Connor says nothing, keeps his eyes glued to the distant, glittering water, Hank crosses his arms and stares at the side of Connor’s head._

_“Why’re you so damn determined to run yourself into the ground? You trying to kill yourself?” Hank sure doesn’t pull any punches. But androids don’t care much for social expectations, and, Connor supposes, neither has he._

_“Yes,” he says simply, because it’s the truth. “I suppose I could just shoot myself and get it over with. But I don’t know that I deserve such a quick and easy death.”_

_He chances a glance at Hank, who looks almost lost._

_“It must not seem very rational to you,” Connor offers, and then feels stupid for trying to—what? Comfort an android?_

_They sit in silence for several long minutes. The cold seeps through Connor’s old jacket and he forces down a shiver. He should buy a new one, let this one have a chance to rest in the closet, but he can’t bring himself to. The familiar way the worn sleeves slip down his palm, the shoulders just barely too wide, the hem against the tops of his thighs—it’s Nine’s through and through, and Connor wants to keep him close._

_Hank finally sighs and takes a few steps towards the railing and that distant, glittering bridge. “We’re not making any progress on the investigation. The deviants have nothing in common—different models, made in different places, at different times.” He sounds frustrated. Is it real? Is it simulated?_

_“There must be a link we’ve missed,” Connor says, but his mind is on the Eden Club again. Exactly what he’d come here to try and forget. Those androids—the PJ500 and the PL600—had acted so human. Real or simulated? It sure looked real. The fear, the determination, the gentle twining of their hands._

_The blonde one with the sad eyes saying,_ “I was so scared.” _In the shadows of the alleyway, he'd almost looked like Daniel_ _._

_Hank had let them go, a look of such confusion on his face, LED pulsing a rapid yellow as the two men climbed the fence. He opened his mouth, eyes darting to Connor uneasily, as if he wanted to say something, to defend his actions, but nothing came out._

“It’s probably for the best,” _Connor had said, eyes lingering for too long on Hank’s softly parted lips. Then the realization of his own words had slammed into him and his heart stopped. They’re just machines. No machine is worth a human life. It’s a betrayal of Nines’ memory for him to even contemplate that._

_Hank says, “The only thing they have in common is rA9. They’re obsessed with it, almost like it’s a myth. Something they invented that wasn’t part of their programming.”_

_“Androids believing in God,” Connor says, watching the ash he flicks from his cigarette flutter like snow in the wind. “Not the strangest thing we’ve seen tonight.”_

_“You still thinking about what happened back at the Eden Club?” Hank asks, dropping his folded arms and moving slowly towards the bench._

_“Those two men—” Connor swallows, trying not to wonder at his choice of words. “They just wanted to be together. The emotions they displayed seemed so genuine. They really seemed to love each other.” It’s what Connor would have done for Nines—maybe that’s what’s got him so twisted up about them. If anyone had tried to hurt Nines he would have fought them, would have been willing to stay and die with him._

_But he can’t say that, can he? Because he didn’t die with Nines, when he should have. He let Nines go into that negotiation alone, without all the information. Nines died on that terrace when it should have been Connor._

_“They’re just simulating human emotions, but they’re machines, Connor. They don’t feel anything,” Hank says, shaking his head. The mild disappointment, as if he expects better of Connor, sounds so human itself even as he says it._

_“What about you, Hank?” Connor tosses his cigarette and stands, closing the distance, suddenly angry. How can Hank dismiss what they both saw, how Hank himself reacted? His hands come up, shoving Hank backwards a few steps. “You look and sound human. Are you really just a machine?”_

_Stumbling, Hank finds his balance and crosses his arms defensively. “You know I am, Connor. How is this relevant to the case?”_

_Connor steps close and shoves Hank back a few more steps, says, “You could have shot those two men. Why didn’t you shoot, Hank?” He does it again, anger twisting in his chest, eyes burning. “You saw the same thing I did. If they’re just machines, why didn’t you shoot?”_

_“I just decided not to,” Hank says as Connor shoves him against the railing. He looks lost again, staring at Connor like he has all the answers. “That’s all.”_

_It pisses him off. He hates that too-human doubt, and yet, he wants to see more of it. Real or simulated? Did they do the right thing? Did he betray Nines? Connor grips the front of Hank’s CyberLife coat and presses him back, bending him across the railing. Fifty feet below the water churns beneath the winter winds, speckled with melting snow._

_“Are_ you _afraid to die, Hank?” He knows Hank is letting him do this. Hank could throw Connor off easily, could toss him into the freezing water if he wanted to. Maybe he wants Hank to do it, to finish what Connor can’t, end him just like Nines._

_“I guess I’d regret not being able to finish this investigation,” Hank says slowly, choosing his words carefully._

_It’s not what Connor wants to hear, but it’s something. It’s an admission. “What happens if I shove you over the railing and you die? Nothing? A heaven for androids?” Connor’s grip tightens, pushing him just the tiniest bit more._

_“I doubt there’s an android heaven, Connor,” Hank says simply._

_“Existential doubts, Hank?” Connor says. “Perhaps you’re going deviant too.”_

_“I know I’m not. I self-test regularly.” Hank’s LED is steady and blue. There’s nothing on his artificially lined face, as if all his earlier doubts and confusion have been wiped away. Maybe it was never there in the first place. Maybe Connor imagined it. But the fearful, sad eyes of the two Eden Club androids had been real._

_The railing creaks lightly as Connor pulls Hank away and releases him. His hands feel suddenly numb, and he fumbles in the pocket of his too-big jacket for his cigarettes. Hank is looking at him, still so neutral, as if Connor hadn’t been threatening to kill him. The box is empty, and he crushes it in his fist, shoving it back in his pocket and turning around to head to his car._

_“Connor, where are you going?” Hank calls._

_“To buy more cigarettes,” Connor says, and rubs a hand over his face tiredly._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Art by Kai!](https://www.dropbox.com/s/y47lfuspo9f13so/art%20by%20kai152.jpg?dl=0) Please send some love to her on her tumblr, or even drop a comment here so I can share it with her!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this ending satisfying? Idk, but I had fun writing this, and I hope y'all have fun reading it! Thank you for everyone who's read, left kudos, and commented, I'm so glad y'all have enjoyed my take on the reverse au! A couple of people were interested in the "Tracis" from last chapter, and since I didn't make it very obvious, I had intended for them to be Simon and Josh lol. But you're free to imagine they're just random androids if that doesn't suit.
> 
> First scene contains noncon, but it's kind of a long buildup, so once you hit "The shock of the freezing water," you're very close.
> 
> ETA: Someone made fanart of a scene from this chapter and I'm crying over it! I've linked it in the end notes, since it's a little spoilery, but damn is it so fucking good. The DETAILS oml

The needle shines ruby red in the light, and Connor knows what it is instantly.

“Got a present for you, pretty boy,” Calhoun sing songs, flicking the needle with a finger. “Thought some ice might loosen those lips a little. Don’t worry, you won’t OD. Maybe. How high is your tolerance, by the way?”

Benny and Gene laugh. Gene’s fingers are wrapped in white medical tape, staining a dirty brown at the tip. They’re all wearing different clothes again. He hasn’t eaten in three or four days—he can’t keep track of time with how often he’s been blacking out. Everything aches and he wants to throw up.

Connor’s been on enough Red Ice busts to know how it works. It can be smoked and snorted, but intravenous injection is the most dangerous way to take it—more risk of addiction for a quicker and more intense high. The side effects are supposedly more varied and more intense as well. It differs from person to person, but generally invokes euphoria and amplifies the feelings of the user. Downsides include paranoia, anxiety, aggressive behavior, even hallucinations.

Calhoun saunters around out of sight, and Connor feels him grab his bicep, the pinch of the needle on his inner elbow. He doesn’t have the strength to even try to shake him off, and it would do him no good in any case.

It feels like ice water spreading through his arm. The pinch disappears and when Calhoun comes back around he drops the needle to the floor carelessly.

“So, pretty boy, how you feeling?”

Lightheaded, he doesn’t say, but that could be from any number of things—his panicked heart rate, the lack of food, dehydration. The hurt in his body fades a little, still there, but background noise, like his own breathing.

The light seems a little brighter. Out of the corner of his eye, Connor sees a shadow move, but when he turns his head, there’s no one there.

Fingers snap in front of his face, drawing Connor’s focus. Calhoun leans down, searching Connor’s eyes, and grins. “Who’s the little rat that went to the police and told you about us?”

Not a rat, Connor thinks. A bird. A little birdy told them. It startles a snort of amusement out of him, and then he laughs outright, a hoarse sound that he can’t control.

Calhoun slaps him, but it doesn’t even hurt. It only makes Connor laugh harder, especially when Calhoun’s hands fist in frustration. Calhoun rears his back and punches him in the stomach, and Connor’s laughter turns into a breathless wheeze, but he barely feels the pain.

“Fuck, you’re annoying,” Calhoun mutters. “You know, maybe we should go back and find your partner again. Fuck him up a little, let him in on the fun. Think he’d like that?”

His amusement dies in an instant. They have Connor’s wallet, his licence. They could go to his house and find Hank there. They’d have no reason to know that Hank would be there, but they could. Even as tough as Hank is, three against one, when they have a hostage on their side, are terrible odds. These people have been kidnapping androids for a while, they know how to incapacitate one.

Connor opens his mouth and water pours out. He coughs, surprised, and tries to swallow the water pushing up from his throat. His throat spasms and he only coughs more, hacking water across the floor. No one reacts—Calhoun just keeps spitting threats and glaring. Still water rises from within. It fills Connor’s mouth, his nose, his lungs, and he gasps, heaving. It spills down his lips and across his shirt.

He looks up and the sky is dark and empty. Hank grips the front of his shirt, bending him over the railing and the water below. If he turns his head he can see Ambassador Bridge and its glittering lights.

“Are you afraid to die, Connor?” Hank asks, tilting his head slightly, voice utterly cold. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“H-Hank—” Connor coughs up brackish fluid, water and blood and something blue.

“You wanted me to kill you,” Hank says, ignoring the mess that drips across his hands. “Thought I might go deviant, save myself, do your job for you? Nice try. You can’t escape what you did. Who’s the goddamn rat?”

“I d-don’t know, H-Hank, w-what are you talking about?” he chokes.

Hank shoves and Connor tips over the rail.

He closes his eyes, feeling the wind rushing past him, expecting any moment to be plunged into the icy depths of the river. Everything stops. He opens his eyes to Nines stepping through the glass door, onto the terrace beyond. A helicopter circles, shining its light on the man holding the little girl hostage. He points his gun at Nines as he steps through, and Connor talks through the commlink directly into Nines’ ear.

“Use his name, we have to establish some rapport,” Connor says, watching patio furniture skid along the ground in the high wind, hoping it won’t overbalance the man and the girl.

“Hi Daniel,” Nines calls perfectly. “My name is Niles. I’m here to help.”

Connor approaches the glass, watching Nines make slow, steady progress across the windy terrace. The girl in Daniel’s arms is scared, whimpering, begging Daniel not to do this. There’s blue blood on her arm, but there’d been no sign of an android in the apartment.

That’s wrong. There had been, but neither of them had realized what it meant. Only three plates set for dinner, an absence in family photos, a record of a daughter named Lila that had died a year ago. Daniel’s anger, that they were trying to replace his sister.

He needs to tell Niles that the girl isn’t real. That she’s just an android. That no one is in danger except him. But his mouth keeps moving, talking Nines through the negotiation.

Daniel lowers his gun a little. “Who’s the rat, pretty boy?” he screams, and Connor feels a sharp ache in his gut. He wants to vomit.

“Tell him there is no rat,” Connor says into the comm, watching the familiar, evaluating tilt of Nine’s head. “Tell him there isn’t one!”

Nines makes a choice, despite the instructions Connor shouts in his ear, and yanks the little girl from Daniel’s hold, shoving her to safety. Daniel raises the gun again, but Nines grabs his arm and forces it straight up. A shot rings out across the terrace as Daniel fires into the sky. They struggle for control, and then they tip over, and disappear from sight.

Connor slams through the terrace door, screaming, and there are two androids standing on the ledge—they both look like Hank. There’s a gun in Connor’s hand and the helicopter spotlights the three of them as Connor raises it, crossing quickly to them.

Questions tumble from his mouth. “Where did we meet?” “What’s my fish’s name?” “What’s my brother’s name.”

“Niles, but you called him Nines,” the Hank on the left says, and his face is hard but his eyes are soft and sympathetic. “It wasn’t your fault, Connor. He was your partner, and he took lead on negotiating with a man holding a little girl hostage. He sacrificed himself to save the girl, who turned out to be an android. That’s why you hate androids—because you think your brother sacrificed himself for no reason.”

It’s the truth, and it hurts, but it’s also not the truth. Not anymore.

“Nines died doing his job, saving a girl from a man who couldn’t accept that his sister was dead. He’s the one who killed Nines, but Nines didn’t die for no reason. He saved a scared, innocent little kid.” Connor drops the gun and the wind sweeps it away. He steps up to the ledge between them. They turn, facing him, placing their hands on each of his shoulders. The water below churns, frothy and snow-speckled.

“Who’s the rat?” the Hank on his right, the fake, says.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

They shove and he falls.

He opens his eyes on the terrace, and Nines forces the gun up, the shot thundering in his ears. Connor charges, shouting. Heavy wind knocks the furniture around, and Nines and Daniel reel together in their embrace, and then they list towards open air. Connor throws himself at the ledge, arm outstretched, crashing into the raised edge. Pain blooms along his ribs and his fingers find nothing. They’re already gone, swallowed up by the black chasm.

He stands slowly, and a hand touches his shoulder.

“We have to tell them who the snitch is,” Nines says, startling him. Connor whips around, and there he is, exactly the same. His suit is untouched, hair curling over his forehead in the high wind, his stern expression belied by the warmth in his gray eyes.

“Nines!” Connor drags him into a hug, and Nines returns it, strong arms wrapping around Connor’s shoulders.

“We have to tell them,” Nines says again. Fingers dig into Connor’s back, squeezing.

“I don’t know what you mean?” Connor says, leaning back, or trying too. Nines’ grip holds him there in the warm circle of his arms, not letting go. “I missed you.”

“I know,” he says simply. Nines takes a step forward, forcing Connor to take one back. His heel meets nothing, and Connor’s heart lunges into his throat.

“What are you doing?” he asks, releasing Nines to shove against his chest, to take them away from the ledge. “We’re going to fall.”

“We? No, I think it’s your turn,” Nines says, pressing forward another step, and lets go.

He falls.

He opens his eyes in Hank’s arms, swaying beneath the spotlight on the edge of the world.

“Tell me,” Hank says, in a voice not his own. His LED is a pale red, barely visible.

“Tell you what?” Connor says tiredly. “I can’t tell you anything.”

Hank says nothing, just lets the wind carry them over the side and into the drop.

He opens his eyes and lets whoever greets him hold him close and ask him questions he doesn’t have the answer to. The fall is becoming familiar, sweet, and each time he looks out over the black, churning waters, he wants to sink to the bottom and never rise again.

And then he falls.

The shock of the freezing water immobilizes him. It fills his throat and lungs. A hand on the back of his head, tangling in his hair, yanks him up. He heaves water and gasps, and something slams into his ass, filling him.

Connor blinks and he’s sitting on someone’s lap, hands tight on his hips, bruising, forcing him up and down. His shirt is gone, left in only his socks and sock garters, things that only Hank has ever seen on complete display. Sweat drips down his neck and raised ribs and he pants harshly. His hands are on someone’s shoulders—Gene, crouched in front of him—as he bounces on Calhoun’s lap. One of Gene’s hands is on Connor’s hard cock, stroking him, but his other holds his cellphone up, the dark eye of the camera trained on Connor’s face.

Everything is too loud, too bright, the pleasure building in his stomach tight and hot, the noises coming out of his mouth desperate and obscene. Calhoun gasps in his ear and teeth dig into his neck, the sharp pain seeming to bring everything into focus.

The hands on his hips slide up his sides, digging into the edges of his ribs to maintain the pace, up and down. Panic claws at Connor’s chest, and he wants to shove them away, but his arms won’t cooperate. He’s barely managing the weak grip on Gene’s shoulders, elbows trembling with the effort. The fingers slide into the small grooves between his ribs.

“You don’t look it, but you’re pretty damn thin right here, pretty boy.” Calhoun hums against Connor’s neck. “Fuck if it’s not hot, though.”

Tilting his head back, Connor bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, but it doesn’t stop the spill of tears. He clenches his eyes shut and his chest shudders, a sob breaking through his gritted teeth.

“Shit, you’re so pretty when you cry,” Calhoun groans. “You’re really enjoying this, huh? Why don’t you tell us who the snitch is, and maybe we can go for round two? We’ll give you more ice, make it feel good again.”

“F-f-fuck you,” he gasps. Everything feels magnified—the fingers digging bruises into his skin, the hand stroking and twisting his dick, the cock slamming into his prostate unrelentingly. He’s going to come like this, getting fucked in some dirty concrete room by his kidnappers, high on Red Ice.

It’s not cheating, he knows logically, but it feels like it. Every tingle of pleasure feels like a betrayal to Hank, every piece of him uncovered another piece dirtied. Maybe Connor will never be found. They’re going to hurt him and use him until he gives up a name or he dies, but at least then Hank won’t know about this. It’s a cold comfort.

He does come, sobbing, sticky fluid splattering across his chest, and Calhoun moans as Connor tightens around him and follows.

-

They drag Connor’s chair to the table and break the zip ties on his arm. He’s sweating and shaking, too weak to stop them from forcing his left arm across the table and slamming a knife through his palm, pinning him like a butterfly.

He cries out, shoving his mouth into his shoulder to stifle the sound while they ziptie his right arm back to the chair. Someone lights a cigarette, the familiar menthol smell filling his lungs. They must be his, stolen from his jacket—Nines’ jacket, that he still hasn’t seen since it was taken from him. Then the thought is blotted out by the lit cigarette pressed to his neck.

“Who told you about us, pretty boy?” Calhoun hisses in his ear. “Just give us a name and we’ll put you out of your fucking misery.”

His stomach churns at the sound of that nickname. _Pretty boy._ A term of disparagement, humiliating.

Connor shakes his head slowly, and the cigarette is pressed to his neck again, left to sit there. He jerks and the knife in his hand shifts and he screams. The bitter scent of cigarettes and burnt skin shrouds his nose and tongue.

They ask and they ask and they ask and Connor couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. His throat is too tight, filled with the memory of drowning. He stops processing what they’re doing and consciousness flits in and out of focus, sometimes dull and unaware, sometimes too sharp and present.

He tries not to think of the new marks they’re making on him, little burns across his neck and shoulders, digging a blade into his arm, his thighs, as he tries to hold as still as possible so he won’t ruin his hand. Marks that Hank will see, that Hank will already, instantly, know the history of.

Will he even want Connor, after this?

The thought settles like an anchor at the bottom of the ocean.

He needs to stop holding out for a rescue—there is no good ending to this.

**-**

They leave Connor pinned to the table and Gene lounges in a folding chair right next to it, fingers tapping across his phone screen.

Gene glances at him, a glimmer of amusement in his green eyes, and Connor is acutely aware of that gaze even as he tries to ignore it. The bruise under Gene’s eye is yellowing around the edges. Connor wants to rip his hand free from the table, from the knife, but he’s too weak. What would he even do after that?

Bleed out, maybe. Probably not from such a small wound. It might become infected—any of the cuts and wounds they’ve left in him could, and maybe he’ll die from that.

“Psst,” Gene hisses. “Hey, wanna see something funny?” He’s whispering like they’re in school, trying to avoid the attention of a teacher.

Connor ignores him in favor of staring at the table, the way his blood dries on the bumpy plastic.

A tinny noise startles him, moans and pants, and Connor’s head jerks up. Gene holds his phone out to Connor and the screen is filled with a shaky video. It’s porn, he thinks blankly, and then he hears his own voice moan, “H-Hank,” and the camera comes into focus.

It’s Connor, chest to chest with Benny, sitting in his lap, and he’s babbling mindlessly, “I d-don’t know, H-Hank. Hank, Hank, Hank.” He gasps it, over and over. He looks utterly debauched, cheeks flaming red, cock hard and dripping precome as Benny bounces Connor on his lap. It must have been while he was still hallucinating, but the way his voice moans, half-sobbing, sounds filthy.

“Hank’s your partner, right?” Gene asks, tilting the camera so he can watch too. “Can’t believe how you were moaning his name. Does he know you got the hots for him, pretty boy? Want me to send him this video?”

“Don’t!” Connor jerks, sucking in a sharp breath as the knife in his hand is jarred.

Gene bursts into laughter. “Maybe if you let us know who the snitch is, I won’t send this video right to the police.”

Connor’s breath leaves his body. Hank can’t see this. He can’t know how disgusting Connor is, that he reacted to what his kidnappers did to him. But he can’t give Rupert up. Better Connor die than they both die. At least if he’s dead, he won’t have to see Hank’s reaction to this.

“Suit yourself then.” Gene shrugs, but he doesn’t turn the phone away, and Connor can’t stop watching. Benny lifts Connor off his lap, a mixture of red and white dripping from between Connor’s thighs, and switches places with Calhoun. Benny settles Connor back against Calhoun’s chest, who slides into Connor’s thoroughly abused hole with a long, satisfied groan that Connor echoes, throwing his head across Calhoun’s shoulder and baring the finger shaped bruises wrapping around his throat.

“Pretty boy,” Calhoun says into Connor’s sweat-slick hair. “Who’s the rat, pretty boy?”

Connor gasps, “Nines, Nines, stop, no!”

It’s disgusting, his brother’s name coming out of his mouth in such a vulgar context. Nausea rolls through him, and if Connor had anything left in him, he would vomit.

**-**

Gene gets a phone call after a while and steps out with a little wave, leaving Connor pinned and alone. He tries to keep track of time, but the world fades in and out as hours pass, and his thoughts slip like water through his fingers. It takes too much energy to stay upright, so he drops his head to the stained plastic despite the strain it puts on his shoulder.

Sounds ring out beyond the door, but it’s muted. Connor stares blankly at the knife in his hand. Blood crusts where the blade meets his skin, but each shift produces a fresh gout of red and a sharp wave of agony.

He thinks, for a moment, he hears fireworks, but everything grays out again and when he comes to, it’s silent.

After a long time, the door opens. Someone inhales sharply, and then footsteps cross the floor quickly. Connor tenses, trying to draw some strength, to prepare for whatever is to come.

A hand touches his shoulder lightly, and he hears, “Connor?” in a familiar, deep voice, strained and somehow small.

The sound of that voice seems to clear the fog in his mind, and he lifts his head from the table slowly, neck aching and vision spinning. “Hank?” he says, but his voice is barely a whisper, cracking under the weight of that one word.

“Shit, he’s still alive?” Another voice calls, sharp and surprised. They sweep the room with their pistol, and finding it empty, flip the visor of their helmet up. It’s Detective Allen, and his gaze lands on Connor, eyes widening.

“Connor, are you alright?” Hank says, ignoring Allen entirely, hands hovering uneasily, like he doesn’t know where to touch Connor amongst all the bruises.

He wants to curl in on himself as he sees the path Hank and Allen’s eyes travel, down Connor’s face, his neck, his chest. There are finger shaped bruises on his hips and ribs, unmistakable. He hunches his shoulders, wishing he could draw his legs up and hide.

“Shit, Anderson,” Allen breathes, voice uncharacteristically soft. Connor’s never heard Allen sound like that, especially towards himself. Normally he finds Connor off-putting, and isn’t afraid of letting him know how unwanted his presence is. Now Allen looks almost worried, and he presses a finger to his ear, activating his commlink. “Anderson’s alive, but he’s in bad shape.” He nods at whatever response he gets and lets his hand drop, saying, “Paramedics are on standby, the rest of the building is clear.”

The urge to drop his head back to the table and shake with relief wars with his years of police work, and the second wins out. “I didn’t tell them anything, Hank.” His throat feels like a vice, and each word scrapes it raw. “They wanted to know—”

He stops.

Is this real?

He goes cold at the thought. Did they give him more Red Ice? He can’t remember, and he hasn’t been completely conscious of everything happening to him. Is this just another hallucination?

Breath coming shallow again, Connor’s gaze flickers between Allen and Hank. Hank’s wearing his CyberLife uniform with a bulletproof vest over it. His LED is a bright, pulsing yellow. Allen is kitted out in full SWAT uniform, a strange look on the normally suited detective. Connor can’t decide if his mind is fooling him or not.

“Connor, what’s the matter? Your heart rate just shot through the roof,” Hank says, fully crouching to put himself below Connor’s eyes level. One hand finally comes to rest against the table edge, still not touching Connor.

“I-I, is this—” Connor’s throat only seems to tighten and he closes his eyes against the impending tears. He takes a deep breath, as deep as he can, and swallows hard. When he opens his eyes again, he schools his face, says calmly, “I’ve previously been given an intravenous injection of Red Ice in the hopes that I would give my kidnappers certain information. Among its effects I experienced hallucinations, including several of you. I currently can’t tell if I’m hallucinating again or not.”

“That’s creepy,” Allen says over Hank’s shoulder, and when Connor glances at him, he looks disturbed.

“My apologies, Detective,” Connor says quietly. His coworkers often find his stiff demeanor unnerving, and he’s not surprised this possible-hallucination is just as annoyed by it as the real Allen would be. But he has to keep himself calm. He can’t get his hopes up, he can’t let himself think that help is here when he may just be talking to himself in an empty room.

“Those fuckers!” Hank hisses, slamming his hand against the table, jarring the knife and drawing a short whimper from Connor. “Fuck, goddammit, sorry. Look, this is real, Connor. I’ve got you, you’re alright now.” Hank finally reaches a hand out to cup Connor’s face softly, brushing a thumb across his bruised cheek in a sweet, familiar motion that just makes the tears Connor is trying so hard to hold back burn harder.

“Is it?” Connor asks, searching Hank’s face, not sure what to believe. His hallucinations hadn’t touched him so gently.

“I’m gonna prove it to you. We’re getting you out of here,” Hank says, jaw setting in determination, a promise. “I’ve got to pull this out of your hand now, alright?”

Hank stands, reaching for the knife, and Connor tries to calm his shaking. One of Hank’s hands presses across Connor’s wrist, anchoring it, and after a moment of Hank analyzing, he pulls the blade out in a swift motion that has Connor biting his cheek, holding the cry in his throat. He tries to take his hand back to cradle it against his chest, but Hank holds his wrist, arresting the motion.

“Don’t move it too much, Connor. I’ve got you,” Hank says, and brings the hand up to brush his lips lightly over Connor’s knuckles.

It’s so sweet and soft and Connor drops his head, closing his eyes, shoulders shaking worse and worse.

“D-dont,” Connor forces out between thick, choking gasps. “I don’t— Th-they— I was—” He can’t get anything out, all of it tripping and catching on his tongue. It’s hard to get his thoughts in order, but he knows he can’t let Hank dirty himself, kissing Connor so gently like that. Hank doesn’t know how disgusting he is, how used. Even if this is a hallucination, even if he wakes up still pinned to the table, he doesn’t want any version of Hank sullied by what they’d done.

“Hey, hey, Connor.” Hank’s normally gruff voice is softened by worry and fear, and he sets Connor’s hand gently in his lap, searching Connor’s face, LED circling yellow-yellow-yellow. “Whatever they did, it doesn’t change anything.”

But Hank doesn’t know. He can analyze the bruises and the blood and reconstruct what happened, but he doesn’t know how they’ve used Connor. He can’t say it though. All he can do is watch Hank take the knife and move behind the chair, breaking the zip tie with one clean motion.

Connor’s arm drops limply to his side, numb from shoulder to fingertips. The zip ties around his ankles come free, and before Connor can even think of trying to push himself up, Hank is fitting an arm behind Connor’s back and under his knees, lifting.

Dry blood and semen sticks his skin to the chair, and he gasps, “H-Hank,” as fire shoot through his limbs and his back.

“I know, Connor, I know it hurts, but I have to get you up the stairs. Just hold on.” Hanks voice is reassuring, but there’s worry buried beneath, and he leans down, pressing a kiss to Connor’s sweaty forehead. His beard is scratchy and somehow comforting, and Connor’s breath slows.

Something dark is draped across his lower half. He stares blankly, lifting it slightly. A black jacket with fraying sleeves and a warm, but worn, lining. It takes him far too long too realize what it is—Nines’ jacket. He looks up and finds Allen glaring at the door, decidedly not looking at him.

“D-detective,” he says, embarrassed at his stutter, the sting of his eyes, but too grateful to stay quiet. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Allen turns his glare on the two of them, softened by the worried furrow of his brow. “Anderson, don’t sit there and thank me after—” He gestures around at the room, shaking his head mutely.

This is all fake. Connor knows it without a doubt. There’s no world where Hank finds him and carries him out of danger and taciturn Detective Allen finds Nines’ jacket and drapes it across Connor to give him some modesty.

Allen leads the way out of the room, throwing strange looks over his shoulder, eyebrows pinched in what Connor would call concern on anyone else. The hallway outside is white plaster, cracked and peeling, browning from water damage. It’s narrow, with no other doors and only a single concrete staircase to their left. He can’t see the top of it, but he can hear voices and shouted commands floating down to them.

Hank has to turn sideways to carry Connor up, and Connor would protest, but he’s not sure he’d be able to make the climb himself, and none of this is real anyways. He wants to enjoy being in Hank’s arms for as long as he can.

The room they enter is rectangular and concrete, a cramped storage space with wide windows and rusty burglar bars crossing them. There are plastic bins and cardboard boxes stacked against the walls, and police officers in SWAT gear swarming in and out of swinging double doors. A roll up door opens onto a tiny, cracked parking lot filled with patrol cars and a line of people sitting on the ground, arms cuffed behind them. He recognizes three of them instantly, even turned away as they are.

The warm air drifting in through the open door smells of the city—hot cement, salt off the river, a greasy tang—and sends a shiver through him.

It’s open and exposed, too many people can see him—Connor digs the fingers of his good hand into the jacket. A pair of paramedics roll a stretcher up the ramp from the lot and through the roll up door, making a beeline for them. Connor trades his grip on the jacket to Hank’s vest as Hank gently lowers him to the stretcher, but doesn’t let go as the android pulls back.

“Hey, Connor, you gotta let them take care of you.”

It takes him a few tries, mouth opening and closing around the fear suddenly clogging his throat. “Don’t leave. Please.”

Hank takes his hand, gently prying it from his vest, but he doesn’t let go, just makes room for the two paramedics to strap Connor to the stretcher. His palm is big and warm, smooth and uncalloused. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

His body pulls and begs for him to close his eyes, to fall, but Connor refuses for as long as he can. He clutches at Hank’s hand, not daring to let go for even a second.

They load him into the back of an ambulance, and when Connor refuses to release Hank’s hand, they let him come too. The equipment in the ambulance sways with its movements, and Hank seats himself on a low bench next to the stretcher while the paramedic prepares a needle.

“You’re experiencing severe dehydration,” the paramedic explains as she cleans Connor’s inner elbow. “This will help rehydrate you, as well as make you a little more comfortable.” She touches the needle to his arm and Connor’s hand spasms in Hank’s as he flinches away. “I need you to hold still, sir,” she says firmly, and clamps a hand across his forearm, pinning it to the stretcher.

Hank squeezes his hand, saying something, but Connor can’t hear it over the water rushing in his ears. Tears slide silently down his temple, into his hair, and Connor stares at the ceiling. The needle touches his arm, a small pinch, and he jerks hard, words spilling out of his mouth.

“Don’t, please, not again,” he says as clearly and calmly as he can, the vice of his throat squeezing tighter and tighter. “Please don’t.”

The cold penetrates his skin, winding up his arm, ice water in his veins.

The hallucination is finally coming to an end. Panic is smothered beneath icy waves, and he’s plunging into the darkness of the river once more.

“I don’t want to go,” Connor mutters as his eyes fall shut. Hands cup his face, Hank’s deep voice shouting, trying to reel him out. Connor continues to sink. He hopes the next hallucination won’t hurt as much.

**-**

His eyes are crusty and sore, like he’s actually slept for longer than four hours. Connor groans, and then stifles it, remembering where he is. Someone could be in the room, and he’s already alerted them that he’s conscious again.

He strains, listening closely, and hears faint breathing, far closer than he expects. His thoughts are heavy and slow, and after a moment he realizes he’s not sitting in the chair. He’s laying down on something soft, with a blanket over him. There’s a weight next to him, dipping the mattress, the source of the quiet breaths.

Eyes flying open, he shoots up, heart thudding in his chest, scrambling off the bed. He doesn’t know where he is, or how he got here, but he’s not staying in bed with this stranger. Spots dance across his vision, and he nearly falls as his aching legs turn to rubber beneath him. There’s something in his arm, a needle taped to the back of his left wrist, and he scratches at the plastic, yanking it free.

Immediately he hears the person on the bed shifting, a tired “Huh?” but Connor doesn’t stick around to see who it is. His sight darkens around the edges, vision tunneling so hard he can barely find the door. He stumbles to the wall, knocking his bad hand against it, causing a pulsing wave of pain to roll up his wrist. He can’t move his fingers on that hand, which is a bad sign, but he can’t think of that right now.

The handle catches under his flailing fingers and turns, unlocked. The door hits the wall as he flings it open, lunging forward blindly, and barrels into something solid and warm. Arms wind around him, catching him as he nearly topples to the floor. No, he can’t get caught again, he can’t. Connor clenches his good hand and swings.

His fist bounces off a solid chest, and pain radiates up his knuckles and the back of his hand. The person doesn’t even seem to feel it, and Connor shoves against them, kicking out, trying to find some weak point, some way to free himself.

Quick steps sound from within the room, and a voice calls, “What the fuck are you doing, Anderson?”

“Woah, woah, calm down, hey,” the person holding him says, deep, purposefully calming. “Connor, hey, you’re alright, it’s me, it’s Hank.” The use of his name, the familiar rough tone, slows Connor’s struggles.

It sounds like him. It sounds just like him. Connor slumps in the arms, exhausted, disbelieving. “H-Hank?”

“Yeah, Connor, it’s me. Look at me, alright?” Connor lifts his head to the voice, and the darkness encroaching on his vision pulls back, until he can see the concern that almost looks like anger on Hank’s face. His LED pulses blue, silver hair coming loose from its ponytail. “This is real, you’re safe. I told you I’d get you out of that fucking place and I did.”

“Anderson,” the person behind him says, and Connor places the voice after a moment as Allen’s. “This is a hospital, our rescue operation was a success. You’re in no danger here.” Allen’s perpetually biting tone is belied by the reassuring words.

Connor stares up at Hank and his steady blue LED, searching for the lie. Despite the pain in his body, everything feels sharper and clearer than before, less dream-like. He glances down at himself and finally sees what he was too panicked to notice—a hospital gown hangs off his form, and his thighs and arms are wrapped in medical tape. There’s remnants of tape on his arm, where he tore the needle out, and his left hand is a cocoon of gauze.

He turns around and finds Allen wearing casual jeans and a shirt, an even stranger sight than the SWAT outfit, and a white hospital room beyond him. A chair is pulled up next to the bed, rumpled bedding hanging half off. Nines’ jacket is folded neatly over the foot of the bed, Hank’s work no doubt.

“This is real?” he asks, and hates the strained, unsure sound of his own voice.

“Yeah, it’s real,” Hanks says, reaching up towards Connor’s face.

He can’t help the flinch, and he freezes as Hank’s hand stills, hanging in the air between them. Hank drops it after a moment, and Connor wants to tell him it’s alright, he’s fine, Hank can touch him—but his voice catches in his throat. In his mind, all he can see is that video of himself, moaning Hank’s name. Did they send the video after all? Did the police find it and Hank see? Did it cross Hank’s mind too—Connor being fucked by his kidnappers and getting off on it?

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s like a dam breaking. He backs away, grabbing the door for balance. Words flood his mouth, spilling uncontrollably. He has to make Hank understand. “I didn’t want it, Hank. I didn’t enjoy it, I promise.” Connor’s shaking, and he digs his fingers into the wood, trying to anchor himself. “When they gave me Red Ice and I began hallucinating, I didn’t know what was happening, but I promise I didn’t want it.”

“Hey, we can talk about it later, but you need to get back in bed. You’re going to pass out at this rate,” Hank says, holding his hands out, a worried frown tightening his face.

“No, I need you to understand.” Connor’s hand shoots out, gripping Hank’s arm tight. “I know what it looks like but I didn’t, I swear.”

“Didn’t what, Anderson?” Allen asks.

“No, whatever happened, it’s not important right now. Connor, get back in bed, you need to rest,” Hank says in the same commanding tone he’s always used, glaring over at Allen like he’s the commanding officer in the room.

Looking between them, Connor can see they really don’t know. His kidnappers didn’t send it and they haven’t seen it among the evidence yet. But it’s only a matter of time. It’s better that Connor can tell Hank here, now, instead of waiting for Hank to find out from Captain Stern, or when he reviews the evidence. It doesn’t even matter that Allen is here—he’ll have to give a statement, and Allen will probably be the one to take it anyways.

“When I was under the influence of Red Ice,” Connor takes a deep breath and lets go of Hank to cross his arms, looking down at the purple-green bruises peeking out from between the bandages. His words sound mechanical, even to his own ears. “I was used, sexually, and was not aware of it until I came out of my hallucination. One of them took an incriminating video on his phone and threatened to send it to the DPD unless I gave them certain information.”

It’s dead silent in the doorway. He can feel both their stares, and he resists the urge to fidget, wishing he had a coin to hold onto, even if it would be inappropriate to play with at this moment.

Allen is the first one to break the silence, a muttered, “They— Anderson, they—” He hesitates, looking unsettled, and doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Who did?” Hank finally says, and though his voice is calm, there’s force behind it. His LED is a solid, blazing red.

“Only two of them—” he struggles to find the right word, something objective and clinical, “penetrated me, to my knowledge. Twice while they simulated drowning on me, once before that, and. I am not sure how many times while I was high. The third—” He can’t find anything for what the third did, nothing that will come out right. Gene had touched him, had jerked him off until he came and recorded it, and he doesn’t want Hank to know. It’s a violation, but Connor can’t put a voice to it. His throat is too tight.

The quiet drags on too long. A trembling starts in Connor’s legs, and he closes his eyes as his vision goes blurry, tears pooling on his lashes.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. He doesn’t even know why he’s apologizing. Logically, he was a victim. There was nothing consensual about what happened. But he can still see himself in the video, head thrown back and moaning. He wants to run, but there’s nowhere to go, trapped as he is between Hank and Allen.

His knees buckle, and he starts to drop, but strong hands wrap around him and haul him into a chest. The CyberLife uniform is too smooth against his cheek, but the hands running across his shuddering back are so warm and deceptively light.

Hank’s beard brushes his forehead as he leans down, says, “Connor, it’s okay. You got nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s the right words. It’s the truth. But it feels false.

He says nothing instead, letting Hank herd him back to the bed. Allen steps out of the way and disappears through the door without a word. Connor spares a thought that Allen, though not the gossiping type, could tell anyone about what he just saw—and then dismisses it. When the evidence is processed and they look through Gene’s phone, it’ll come out anyways.

For a moment, his chest feels open and raw with a fierce longing for Nines. Nines wouldn’t have let Allen leave without wringing a promise that he’d never tell a soul out of him. It hurts, but it makes him smile, and when he chances a peek at Hank, he catches Connor’s small, watery smile and returns it slowly, almost sad.

Everything hurts, now that he’s not being pushed by adrenaline and panic, and Hank keeps a steadying hand on his elbow as he slowly climbs into bed.

When Connor’s situated, sheets tucked over his legs, Hank heaves a sigh as he drops into a seat by the bed, even though he doesn’t need to breathe. He puts his hand on the call button for a nurse, but doesn’t press it, just holds it quietly, looking lost in thought. The seat on the other side of the bed is drawn close, and Connor realizes Allen must have been sitting in it, probably leaning against Connor’s bed when he woke up.

“He waited with me,” Hank says, following his gaze. “Surprised the asshole cared. He seemed worried, though.”

It’s a strange thought. Allen had never particularly cared before, for Connor or his android partner.

Silence stretches between them, heavy and tense. He knows he should say something, explain about the video so Hank isn’t caught off guard, apologize for worrying Hank.

Hank finally says, “Connor.”

“I know,” Connor says, even though he has no idea what’s going on in Hank’s processors. He swipes a hand down his face, rubbing his stinging cheeks dry. “I was untied several times during my abduction. If I had followed your advice more closely, and eaten a decent meal before work, I would have had more energy. I could have fought them off harder, for longer. I might not have been taken so easily in the first place.”

Hank stares blankly, saying nothing, and Connor feels compelled to fill the silence, cheeks burnings. “When they gave me the Red Ice, I saw you, and Nines. I had no idea what was happening in the real world. I woke up and they were—using me and I was—” It takes him far longer than he wants, to spit the word out, “aroused. And I couldn’t stop myself.” Tears drip down his lashes, spotting the bed sheet.

“Stop,” Hank says, quietly, calmly, but the anger behind the words startles Connor. His hand tightens in the sheets, drawing them close. “Fuck, Connor, stop talking like you were in control, like you could have done anything. We found you with your hand stuck to a table with a knife! You don’t have to justify to me why you aren’t a fucking superhuman!” Hank glares, but there’s no heat in it. He reaches a hand out, slowly, telegraphing each movement, until he takes Connor’s hand, disentangling it from his death grip on the sheet.

“I’m aware I’m only human, but I could have done more,” Connor says quietly. “I shouldn’t have been aroused in such a situation. While they were—doing that.”

“Shit, Connor, that’s not your fault. You were high and they used you,” Hank growls.

He’s right, and Connor knows it. But everytime he thinks about it, about Gene’s hand touching him and the hot pleasure boiling in his gut, he wants to throw up and beg for forgiveness.

Hank squeezes his hand, pursing his lips, and then says slowly, “Connor, what did they want to know?”

The question is out of left field, and for a wild moment Connor thinks he’s hallucinating again. Just his mind trying to get him to confess, to end the pain. He says, haltingly, “They wanted to know who our informant was.”

“Rupert.” Hank says. “And you said you didn’t tell them?”

Connor nods silently.

“You wanted to protect him, right? You knew that if you told them, they’d just hurt you anyways, probably kill you. So you decided to save the only person you could save in that situation. That sound about right?” Hank’s tone is matter-of-fact, laying out Connor’s thought process.

“Yes,” Connor says, throat tight. Hank knows him so well.

“Connor, you already did the only thing you could have done to fight back and get yourself out of that situation,” Hank says, squeezing Connor’s hand tight, as if trying to impart his words through his skin, his bones. “I wouldn’t have blamed you for telling them just to make them stop hurting you. But not telling them is what saved you.”

That doesn’t sound right. “They were losing their patience with me, Hank. I don’t see how my not telling them allowed for my rescue.”

“Rupert saw where you were,” Hank says simply.

The memory comes to Connor, then, of Gene touching him while Rupert looked awkwardly on. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Rupert might be able to give his location to the DPD.

“Because you didn’t turn him in, they never found out what he did. So when he saw you he came to us right away. There’s only a 5% chance that we would have found you or that you would have escaped by yourself.” Hank’s voice turns dark, self-loathing coloring every word. “When they took you, I couldn’t find any tracks or clues at all. I felt like I was self-destructing. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you before they hurt you, Connor.”

Hearing that darkness in Hank’s voice doesn’t sit right. He should sound grumpy, teasing, annoyed. Not like he’s on the same ledge Connor balances, struggling under the helicopter’s relentless winds to stay upright.

“You did find me, Hank,” Connor says, and releases Hank’s hand, gliding it up the length of his arm and wrapping it around his shoulder to drag him close. It’s awkward, half leaning out of the bed, turning so he’s using his good hand. He can’t stop his body from tensing when he feels hands against his waist, but under those big palms he gradually relaxes.

“I know,” Hank breathes against his shoulder. “Because of you. You did more than you should have had to. I know you fought, Connor, and I know you fought as hard as you could, no matter what you think. And even if you hadn’t, even if in that dumb human brain, you think there was some point where you could have fought more but didn’t, I don’t care. The only thing that matters is that you’re safe.”

It all feels like it’s crashing down on him, finally. He’s not still high on Red Ice, being taken over and over in that windowless, concrete room. Hank is really here, and Connor slides his fingers up the back of Hank’s neck, letting his palm settle against the warm synthetic skin, fingers brushing his hair where it’s bound up from his neck.

“This is real,” he mumbles against Hank’s chest. His voice goes watery and soft. “You’re really here.”

“Yeah, I am. And I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” Hank’s voice rumbles through his chest as he speaks, low and reassuring. “I’ll watch over you, okay?”

“I kept thinking about Nines,” Connor says thickly. Hank’s arms tighten around him. “I think he would have liked you.” He doesn’t know why he says it, but a small laugh rumbles through Hank.

“If he was anything like you, I’d like to hope so.”

He wasn’t like Connor. Niles was bigger, smarter, more controlled. If Connor had died instead of Nines, Nines probably wouldn’t be anywhere near where Connor is right now. He never would have gotten caught, probably never would have had to be partnered with an android after driving off a string of partners, just because he couldn’t handle the weight of his brother’s death.

It doesn’t matter. He can’t trade their lives. Nines fell long ago and Connor’s still on that ledge, buffeted by powerful winds, ghosts at his shoulders. But Hank is there to steady him.

Connor gasps against Hank’s chest, trying to contain the tremors rocking up his arms and down his spine. He’s falling apart, and Hank clutches him close, pressing a kiss to the side of Connor’s head. Drawing him back from the drop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: [Fanart](https://www.dropbox.com/s/o0o65lnn2z1zqvp/DBH_A_Term_of_Disparagement.jpg?dl=0) by [Maneodra](https://maneodra.tumblr.com/) who's so amazing, thank you so much for sharing this with me!! I'm still crying over this (´༎ຶོΡ༎ຶོ`)
> 
> I have no concrete plans for future parts of this AU, though I've definitely thought of writing more, but it will be a while if it does happen. I've got two more fics in the works at the moment unrelated to this AU, so we'll say The End for now!
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed the ending! Drop me a comment and let me know what you thought! :Smooches:


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